


Where Dark And Light Don't Differ

by Leoithne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Sad John, Sad Sherlock, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leoithne/pseuds/Leoithne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's dead and, no matter how he tries, John can't cope with the loss. He thus decides for the worst and Sherlock comes back to save his friend, but things aren't that simple anymore, or are they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Endless Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Angst. A lot of it. You've been warned, read at your own risk.  
> By the way, it was my first attempt with THIS kind of angst, be kind.

It wasn’t going well at all for John Watson.  

Sherlock had died eleven months before and he was now alone in his grief. Everyone around him seemed to have finally accepted Sherlock’s death and moved on with their lives. They told John to do the same, that there was no point in lingering in sorrow. But how could he just let it go? He couldn’t.

He had just spent another sleepless night, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his pain torturing him slowly, but steadily. He knew it would have been another awful day.

At seven o’clock a.m. he took his mobile and called the clinic.

“Hello?”, answered the familiar voice of his secretary.

“I’m not coming today.”, John said.

“John,”, she said caringly “you can’t…”

“I’m not coming today.”, he repeated.

And closed the call.

It wasn’t the first time he didn’t go to the clinic. His secretary and all the staff knew that some days he couldn’t just manage it. The problem was that, lately, he was finding it unbelievably hard to work. That had led to some quarrelling with the administrator of the structure who, one week before, had told him that he couldn’t go on that way and expect to not being fired soon or later. But John didn’t care. He didn’t care for everything at all. Fuck the whole world.

He sat on the bed, hugging his knees with his arms, head resting on them. The light of the day was slowly seeping through the curtains of the window and he wished desperately for the sun to not rise that day. He desired an eternal night, embracing him, caressing him, making him oblivious of what was going on inside him. But one couldn’t stop the sun from rising. He lay down on his belly on the bed and hid his head under the pillow, silently crying his tears of sorrow.

He stayed motionless in that position for an undefined time. They could’ve been minutes or hours, even days. His whole body was aching with pain, so much he would have wanted to scream. Yet the voice failed to come out from his throat, tears suffocating it.

He heard Mrs. Hudson climbing upstairs. She had been very nice with him, she had tried to help him when he was in that state. But no one could’ve helped him

“John?”, she said softly “You haven’t gone to work. Is all ok?”

He squeezed the pillow more around his ears. He didn’t want to listen to Mrs. Hudson voice. He didn’t want her to ask if it was all ok, knowing she knew there wasn’t anything ok at all. She waited at the door for an answer that didn’t come.

“John, I know it’s hard.”, she said.

No, she didn’t, answered John in his head.

“But you have to go on with your life, you just can’t…”

Why, why, why and then why again? Why didn’t she just shut up and go away?

“…stay there the whole day, Sherlock…”

DON’T SAY THAT NAME, John’s head yelled, shouted, cried. Yet no sound escaped his mouth.

“…wouldn’t have wanted this for you…”

Yes, obviously he wouldn’t have wanted it. And yet he had thrown himself down Bart’s roof. So there was no point in saying that to him. If the detective hadn’t wanted it to happen, then he should’ve just not thrown himself down.

“Sherlock…”

DON’T SAY THAT NAME.

“…would’ve wanted you to be happy…”

Then he shouldn’t have done that. Stop.

“I don’t want to hear this anymore!”, he finally shouted “Just leave me, alone!”

Mrs. Hudson began to articulate something, but stopped and descended downstairs.

John returned in the comfortable, deep silence of his room.

Sherlock wasn’t a name that could’ve been easily pronounced in front of John. All his friends had to face that. Because every time that name was pronounced, it had reduced John into a mass of shivering flesh, barely able to walk, talk or even think. No, that wasn’t quite true. Thinking was always with him. When everything else around him had ceased to exist only two things had remained with him: thought and pain. The more the thoughts, the more the pain. For all of them concentrated only on one single subject: Sherlock’s death.

He had tried to drive them away. He had tried to keep on as nothing has happened. He had tried to readjust to his normal life. Nothing had worked. Life without Sherlock wasn’t life at all. He buried his head deeper in the mattress below, almost trying to choke himself.

Some other time passed. He could feel his heartbeat echoing loud on the bed, the noises of the street outside muffled by the pillow. The dark, the silence were protecting him, but not enough. His head was giving him the same old images, the ones so carved in his mind he could almost trace their trails with his fingers.

He was seeing Sherlock, obviously. Sherlock on Bart’s rooftop. He was hearing his note to him, every single torturing word. He was hearing himself screaming the other man’s name. Except this time he let it out loud, filling the room, resounding in his brain, leaving him breathless.

Rushing steps on the stairs.

“John!”, Mrs. Hudson shouted, about to enter the room.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”, he shouted, but pleadingly.

“John…”, she said again, letting out a sigh.

Steps going downstairs. John took a deep breath, emerged from his pillow refuge and turned on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It hurt. It painfully, desperately hurt. He took another deep breath. Tears had dried on his face and now his skin was itching for the salt. He enjoyed the little pain it was causing to him. He buried himself into it, knowing it would help him rest his head for a while, before the second wave of pain would hit him harder than the first. He waited for it to attack, sobbing slowly. And it did.

Few minutes later his whole body was agonising in pain, the heart in his chest was about to explode, or so it seemed, his head hurting so much he could barely keep his eyes open. He started to cry inconsolably, at first he was sobbing, then crying, but in the end he was screaming in torment. The never-ending torment of living.

He bit his left shoulders fiercely, almost wanting to tear off his flesh from the bones, wanting to feel the taste of blood, wanting to feel the physical pain of it, desiring the gesture to drive his inner torture away. He stopped only when he could clearly see his teeth’s purple marks on his skin. He abandoned himself in the sensation, while his last tears left his eyes.

He felt dried, but somehow lucid. His head was heavy and aching, but his thoughts seemed sharper. He stood up, trying to not fall on the floor for his legs didn’t seem to be able to respond at his will to move. He took some deeper breaths until he managed to move three steps in the room. He thus reached the drawer to the other side of the bedroom and opened it. The so familiar orange cylinder of his sleeping pills in front of his eyes. He took it and put it in his pocket. He glanced at his alarm clock. Midday. It was all ok.

He went downstairs, still fighting a bit to keep himself upright and therefore to not fall on the floor, the stairs squeaking under his steps. He was opening the front door to go out, when the familiar voice of Mrs. Hudson called him.

“John! Where are you going now?”

He didn’t answer and slammed the door behind him.

He roamed for a while, almost unaware of his legs moving and of the world existing around him, but knowing exactly where his head was leading him. After thirty minutes of walking he reached the old pub he had always gone to when he had needed some comfort.

He had chosen that one because he had memories of it with Sherlock. They had gone out drinking there once. It had been for a case, actually, not really a drinking evening with a friend. But it’s atmosphere was quite cosy and even Sherlock had let himself go a bit that evening. He had laughed and joked with John, he had proved his infallible deducting skills to him, he had made John’s head go in heaven. So he went there for the happy memories it preserved.

“A beer”, he muttered to the bartender.

The man served it in no time. He went to the table where he and his friend had sat months ago. He sunk into the comfortable sofa and drank his pint in the blink of an eye. He ordered some others before the happy memories of Sherlock in that pub were replaced by the sad ones. Barely able to walk, he paid and stepped out. Two o’clock.

His head was spinning fast while he was walking, his heart engulfed in grief one more time. He walked for what seemed hours to him, until his legs couldn’t sustain him anymore. He thus reached a park nearby and lay on a bench. He looked up to the drifting clouds in the sky, blown by the wind. The image of that peace over him making his heart ache a little more. He got up once again and crawled to another pub, drank some other beers and left. The pain wasn’t giving him rest at all that day. The other times he had drunk until his head had felt so light he had forgotten all his sorrows, this time the more he drank, the more it struck him deeper and deeper.

He needed to make it stop. He desperately needed to make it stop. He entered a small store and bought the largest bottle of whiskey, then went back to the park’s bench. He sat on it and extracted the pills from his pocket. The whole cylinder was gone in no time in his mouth, down to his stomach. The same happened with the whiskey. He wanted the pain to stop. He wished for it to stop. He pleaded and screamed, while tears were running again on his cheeks. Life without Sherlock was despair.

He didn’t want a life without Sherlock.

He realised that it was the only way.

He didn’t want to live anymore.

He let himself drown in the oblivion.

He was going to meet Sherlock after all.

It was all ok.


	2. Insignificant am I?

In his dreamless sleep, John thought of hearing sounds, noises. Then he thought of hearing a voice calling him, but all he could see was darkness. He tried to move, but he couldn’t feel his limbs. He heard again that voice.

“John!”

It sounded so similar to Sherlock’s. He was sure that the detective was calling him. He figured his image in the pitch black of his mind. His hair, his face, his eyes dragging him. Then again.

“John! Can you hear me?”

As he heard it, his mental image started to fade away.

No, no. He didn’t want that to happen. He tried to keep it in front of his eyes, he wanted to be with Sherlock, but his eyes eventually opened. There was a familiar face leaning on him, but it took him a while before realising who he was and where he was.

“He opened his eyes!”, the man told to a lady beside him.

Although the man hadn’t shouted very loud, John’s head rumbled in agony at the sound of it. He looked around, trying to understand what was happening. There was a blue light flashing outside, medical instruments and a doctor. His rational side helped him even in that situation: ambulance. He was certainly in an ambulance. He turned his head to the man with the familiar voice. Grey hair, light tanned skin, quite tall. Lestrade. DI Lestrade for sure, even if his head couldn’t process the information why the DI Lestrade was in an ambulance with him. And where was Sherlock? He was certain he had been there with him, two minutes before.

“W-where is Sherlock?”, he muttered almost unintelligibly.

Lestrade stared at him and sighed sadly.

“You know where he is.”

John shook his head. No, he didn’t know where he was. He was there. He was sure of that. Maybe he was on another ambulance. Ah. No. No. NO. When the reality struck him, he wished for it to be a very bad dream despite already knowing it wasn’t. Sherlock was dead, obviously. He had been dead for eleven months and three days. He had just tried to kill himself to forget that. He had failed not only in saving Sherlock’s life then. He had also failed in putting an end to his. What a useless man he was.

He turned to Lestrade again, but his head was too heavy to think properly. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. The sweet oblivion embracing him again.

He woke up all of a sudden in a hospital bed. His head was spinning fast, faster than he could’ve ever imagined. He felt like he was going to vomit his soul and, to avoid it, he managed to sit on the bed. He tried to climb down, but as soon as he did it, his legs failed to keep him standing. He fell down loudly on the floor. Lestrade ran into the room with a nurse.

“You mustn’t stand up, doctor Watson.”, the nurse said as she helped him sitting on bed again.

“I feel…”, John tried to articulate “…bad. I need…”

To do what? What did he need to do? His body answered for him with a retch. In no time the nurse took a plastic bucket near his bed and placed it under his mouth. He threw up everything, the horrible smell of the whiskey coming out from his stomach making him feeling even worse, his head aching so much it seemed to explode at every retch. Ten minutes later it looked like he had vomited his own guts. He was feeling empty, drained of strengths. He dropped half dead on the bed and closed his eyes again. He probably fell asleep without noticing, because when he opened his eyes a second time, the bucket and the nurse had disappeared. Instead Lestrade was sitting near him, reading some newspaper. He didn’t want to face the conversation with him. He shut his eyes pretending to sleep.

What had he just done? He had never done something that stupid before. Hammered to the point he could barely recognise himself? Yes. Taking more than two pills for sleep? Yes. Purposely trying to kill himself? No. But he had done now. He could easily remember himself walking out of 221B that day with that precise idea in his mind. Lucid, perfectly lucid. He had spent a day preparing himself for that. He had gone out to the pub with that precise aim. But he was alive. And now he had to face Lestrade. And Mrs. Hudson. Oh God. He hadn’t want to cause them any pain. They had been suffering enough. He had only wanted to cease his pain. It was still there. Rather soothed at the moment, but still there.

He plucked his courage up and turned his head to the DI. He opened his eyes. The other man looked at him. There was no anger in his eyes, just a deep understanding. He felt a bit relieved, but sensed his body starting to tremble.

“John!”, sighed with relief Lestrade.

John tried to smile back, but his muscles didn’t seem to cooperate.

An awkward silence fell between them. John could quite feel the tension both in his and the other man’s body. Minutes passed without them speaking a single word. But as soon as Lestrade moved back his eyes to the newspaper, John plucked his courage up once again and spoke.

“How?”, was his first question.

“How what?”, Lestrade stared at him.

It took John a while to form a coherent sentence in his head.

“How did you know I was there?”

“Oh, that.”

Lestrade stopped and didn’t say anything. John still waiting for an answer.

“So?”, he asked again.

“Mrs. Hudson.”, Greg eventually answered. “She called me as she heard you screaming Sherlock’s name in your room. I told her to keep me informed. Then she called me back saying that you went out and that your pills were gone. So I put an agent on your heels. But he lost you at some point and it took him a while to trace you back. When he did, you were already on that bench, half…”, Lestrade stopped abruptly.

“Gone.”, John finished the sentence.

The DI sighed and nodded.

“I’m sorry.”, John managed to murmur, his voice trembling.

Greg shook his head.

“You’d better sleep for a while now.”, he resumed “The nurse said that you need some rest.”

John nodded and closed his eyes. He heard the other man turning the page of his newspaper. Then everything turned black and he fell in another dreamless sleep.

When he woke up once again, Lestrade was nowhere to be seen. He took a look around the room. He was the only patient there. It was quite dark, with soft neon lights on the ceiling. Everything was still. Few noises coming from the corridor outside, behind the door shut. The weight of what he had done was beginning to hit him. He tried to not indulge in those thoughts, but the decision was between those and the ones about Sherlock. He sighed in despair and felt the urge to cry again. Seconds later he was silently sobbing, the face buried in his hands.

Lestrade entered in that exact moment and looked at him.

No, no, no. He didn’t want Lestrade to see him so wrecked, but he couldn’t help himself with it either. Greg approached.

“John…”

“I…am…so…sorry…Greg.”, he said among the heavy sobbing.

Lestrade shook his head once again.

“No need to be. I’m sorry that you have to go through all this.”

“But you all are coping quite well with it. I just can’t…”, he sobbed, not ashamed anymore.

“There’s a difference between the lot of us, me, Mrs. Hudson, the others, and you. We weren’t living with Sherlock. We didn’t spend our lives with him. We didn’t have that deep…bound that you had with him. And sincerely we have our moments too.”

John shut his eyes wide open. The DI calmly explained.

“We moved on with our lives, but it’s hard anyway. The other day I had a very horrible case to face and I automatically took my mobile ready to text Sherlock, before realising he isn’t here anymore.”

John tensed at the detective’s name and smiled reluctantly.

“Feeling sorry for…this, for this whole thing…you don’t have to. We understand. Or, at least, we try to. Except, John, you have to promise us that this won’t happen again. The doctors said you’d probably need to see a psychiatrist to help you and…”

But John interrupted.

“I’ve already seen two psychiatrists. It didn’t work. Every time I came out of their place, I just felt worse.”

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know, John. It’s quite new for me. All this is…I don’t know.”

“I’d just need to be able to not think about S…him.”

“Working more?”

“Don’t you think I’ve already tried that solution? I spent entire days at the clinic, charging myself with eighteen hours, just to go home so exhausted I couldn’t feel the…pain. But the nightmares never ceased, Greg. No matter how much tired, deadly tired I was. There they were, waiting for me. Pills didn’t work. Alcohol did, until the morning came, at least. Then it was hell again.”, John exhaled, like he had just removed an enormous weight from his chest.

Lestrade was looking at him, probably trying to think an adequate response, which didn’t come out anyway. Silence fell again in the room.

“Maybe it’s our fault, John.”, the DI eventually said “We shouldn’t have left you alone that much…thinking that you could… go through it with no problems.”

“I thought I could go through it, Greg, that’s the point. But I can’t. I just c-can’t.”

John started to cry again, his heart feeling all the grief one more time. He couldn’t see Lestrade anymore in his endless tears, his whole body shaking again,  his mind asking him to stop those feelings. He had to fight hard to be back on track.

Lestrade left the room, John understood he was doing that to leave him the time to recover a bit without urging him to.

One day later John was quite himself again. Not well, that for sure, but he somehow managed to keep the most painful thoughts away. He was dismissed at two o’clock p.m., after insisting with the doctors that he was fine and that he needed to go home to recover. He wanted to return home alone, but Lestrade offered to accompany him. Mrs. Hudson was there too.

“Oh, John…”, she said lovingly.

She hugged him, but John wasn’t able to reciprocate it, still feeling a stupid in front of his friends’ eyes.

When they entered 221B, John saw Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson glance at each other nodding, before turning to him.

“What’s that?”, John asked.

“Well, dear…”, said Mrs. Hudson “…DI Lestrade and I thought that you may…”

“…need some company.”, concluded Greg “We sincerely don’t want to leave you alone again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We thought…”, Lestrade cleared his throat “that would be better for you if I stay here for a while. Just to help you.”

“I don’t need you to do that.”

“Listen, John.”, Lestrade sighed heavily “We respect your privacy, but you aren’t in the right conditions to be alone at the moment. We aren’t trying to impose anything on you. We are trying to help, really.”

“Yes, John. Let us help you. Please.”, pleaded Mrs. Hudson.

John rationalised the thought of it for a while. He didn’t want people around, that was his first thought. But he understood he couldn’t be alone, for his sanity’s sake. He knew too well that if he was to face his fears again, it would have been better for him to not face them alone.

He nodded.

“Ok. Ok. You’re right.”

He stepped into the flat, Lestrade following him.


	3. No More Will

Having Greg Lestrade around the house was nothing like having Sherlock, obviously. The DI was calm, affectionate and friendly, while Sherlock had been the most annoying prick ever. Still John would’ve traded Lestrade for Sherlock every time. But he had to admit that at least he felt a little bit reassured knowing there was him around at the moment.

Greg and Mrs. Hudson did everything to please him and make him forget what he was going through. It worked extremely well for the first two weeks, when Lestrade took a leave from Scotland Yard just to help him. He was around the whole day, chatting about his life, his job, his friends, attentive enough to not touch the Sherlock’s subject. They had dinners with other people. Agent Donovan came two or three times to visit. She was kinder than ever to John, so much that John thought he would’ve died of laughter when she left.

“Really?”, he smirked at Greg “What the hell had happened to her? She could barely stand me and now see! I’ve suddenly become her best friend…her long lost brother even!”

Lestrade said nothing, John definitely knew that she was acting that way for what he had done, nevertheless he found the whole thing rather amusing, even if he couldn’t precisely explain why to himself. Maybe because she had always been the grumpy one. Maybe because he had never thought someone could change so much. And yet no explanation was sufficient enough. Probably he found it quite funny because of all the tension he had inside him and he needed desperately something to hold on. Light, carefree thoughts were what he needed the most. And agent Donovan with her unusual behaviour provided lots. Not that he liked her. He didn’t like her at all and that was the reason why he was finding her so entertaining at the moment.

John had obtained a one month leave from the clinic after the “accident”. He had even received apologies from the administrator, who had spent ten minutes of his time saying how he was sorry and that there were no problems and that John could take all the time he wanted. Funny how people that used to barely stand him were now so protective. He found that he disliked that kind of behaviour, but he couldn’t care.

After two weeks of routine to which John was starting to adjust, Lestrade had to return to work. He had left that morning, saying he was to come back for lunch and then go back to work. He had provided John with a book, suggesting that he should have read that.

John was thus sitting in his chair, alone again after two weeks of  “normal” life and he had to face that fact. Lestrade was really behaving like one of the best friend he had ever had, but he couldn’t surely keep on relying on him. Neither could he rely on Mrs. Hudson for the rest of his life. He spent the whole morning thinking about that. They had never touched the subject with him, but he knew he had finally to move on. Leave Sherlock’s death in the past and just go on. He needed to do that for his friends, for all those who cared about him. If only it were so easy!

Greg came back home about at one p.m. .

“John!”, he said panting “What a morning!”

“What happened?”

“I’d say everything, but wouldn’t be enough.”

“Seriously?”

“Two officers got some files from the archive the other day and now they can’t find them anymore. It wouldn’t bug me, if they weren’t some rather important files on a robbery happened years ago. Case still open. Then came the call of a man asking for help because he had heard some burglars entering his house. We went there only to find he had just shut his dog into his wardrobe and the poor animal was frightened to death. Then a double murder in Chiswick. Ask me nothing about that, because, sincerely, I don’t know where to bang my head on.”, he sighed.

“Don’t you like the police life sometimes?”, John smiled teasingly.

“Oh yes. So much I’d find every other job out there a heaven! These two weeks break has sort of broken my relationship with my job. I’ll be fine in two or three days. But now it’s quite hard.”, he smiled back.

John nodded. They ate lunch and Lestrade bolted off for the afternoon, leaving John with his thoughts. Mrs. Hudson provided some company, but, to be honest, John would’ve preferred some time to think.

Some more days passed this way: Lestrade going out early, coming home late, doing night shifts. John thinking. Overthinking. He had found there was no way he could tuck his sad thoughts away when he was alone as they had started to grip his heart even harder. Two days after Lestrade had started to go to work, John had gone back to his silent night cries in his bedroom. Greg had been the perfect distraction and he had even thought that he was finally beginning to let all the grief go. He couldn’t have been more wrong than that.

In his lonely mornings and afternoons the memories of that house with Sherlock in it had started to haunt him again. Sherlock was a ghost there. He could figure him on the sofa, leaning on the table for some experiments, reading John’s blog on John’s laptop. How he had hated that habit of his! Now, instead, it was another sweet-painful remembrance of their days together. He didn’t show those revived feelings on his face when Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson were around, but he felt them all when he tried to sleep at night.

Plus, it was almost one year since his best friend had…passed away. And that constant thought made him shiver. On that day, the church had planned a function to remember Sherlock, and John wasn’t sure whether he could stand that or not. More the latter, probably. Yet not going wasn’t really an option. His friends would have understood him if that were his final decision, but nevertheless he couldn’t have forgiven himself for not paying his respect to the detective one more time. Plus, and that was the worst of it all, that day would’ve been too close to the anniversary of the…thing he had done. How he could cope with all that, he didn’t really know.

Then the dreaded day came, faster than he had expected. He woke up almost unaware of it, until he glanced at the suit lain down on the chair. Suddenly he felt like he had his heart surrounded with barbed wire, which was squeezing it so hard that drops of blood seemed to invade his chest. He tried to breath and to swallow, unable to do both the actions. He inhaled, but it seemed that there was no air around him. The more he inhaled, the more his head went dizzy. He stood up, but his head was spinning so much that he had to sit again on the bed before fainting. Damn. He couldn’t do it. Yet he managed to stand up after two more tries.

He got dressed slowly, his limbs unwilling to cooperate. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were waiting for him downstairs. Like in a dream he went to the secret niche he had in a corner. He moved the little table placed against it, he took the key out from his wallet it and eventually opened it. He had built that little hiding place to get some privacy from Sherlock’s perpetual comings in his room. If one hadn’t known where to look, one would have never found it. He glanced at the lovely orange cylinder containing the so recognisable pills. He had bought them with the others, but he had hidden these ones there. Now he couldn’t have been happier of having taken that decision, which had seemed so silly months before. Because now, even if Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had searched his room, he knew that they hadn’t been able to find it. He put the cylinder in the inner pocket of his jacket and went downstairs. All was perfectly ok.

The function started with some delay. Everyone was there except, with his extreme surprise (or not?) Mycroft. Sherlock’s brother was nowhere to be seen. What an asshole, thought John.

The pastor began his remembrance of Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes was surely one of the greatest men…”

No, not one of the greatest. He was the greatest of them all, he IS the greatest of them all, corrected John. Even in death.

“…and a friend that many of you loved deeply…”

Wrong, pastor. Again, wrong. No one loved Sherlock deeper than…him. No one cared for him as John did. No one. Tears started to flow from the corner of his eyes. He fiercely tried to fight them back, in vain. Where the silence of the church should be sacred, it echoed with John Watson’s sobbing. When they eventually got out, he struggled to walk. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson still by his side. They had been with him all morning, not leaving even for a second.

“Thank you. And sorry for this.”, John muttered trembling.

Yet his head had already started to function lucidly.

They approached Sherlock’s grave and stayed for a while in silence.

“Can I stay with him by myself for some time, please?”, John asked.

The other two nodded and turned their back away, slowly walking a bit further. John caressed the cold black marble and whispered: “I’m coming.”. Then he disappeared from the graveyard. He knew it would’ve taken no time for his friends to notice his absence, so he had to be fast. He swiftly hailed a taxi and gave the cabby the address of a pub. During the drive he started taking the pills. They were bitter, but he didn’t care. All he was feeling was pain, ache and emptiness. All he wanted to feel was oblivion. He was lucid, just like the other time. He wanted it, he wished for it desperately. Everything started to be a bit blurry in front of his eyes. Despair soothed a little. Good effective pills. He got off the taxi and entered the pub.

After he couldn’t remember how many beers, it seemed to him that his head couldn’t bear the thoughts anymore. Images of Sherlock on Bart’s roof. Images of him falling down. Images of John running to him. Images of his friend’s blood on the pavement. Images of people who couldn’t care less around. The so well-known sensation of his heart breaking into pieces. He needed to stop it. He seriously needed to stop it. The brain from thinking, the heart from aching. He eventually got up, paid and started to look for a local store. He found it three minutes and a lot of uncoordinated steps later. He took two bottles of vodka this time. The owner said nothing referred to his state, which, he had to admit, was surely awful to see.

He went down to the Thames, finding a little comfort in a dark corner under a bridge. This time no one would’ve had the time to save him. Two bottles, pills and water. Perfect plan. In his sorrow he smiled at himself. Everything was going to end. All he wanted was death. Die? That's what people DO! had said Moriarty in that darkened pool and he had taken Sherlock’s life. Now John admitted that the consulting criminal was about to take his own too. He swallowed the last pills and drank the last drops of liquor before standing up and walking to the Thames. But his vision went black and all he heard was his head hitting the hard cold floor like an explosion. He drowned in the oblivion.


	4. Faraway

Sherlock was walking to and fro in a very hot and humid room of a bungalow in the Vietnam’s rainforest. He had quite enough of that life, sincerely. One year had passed since he had faked his death down Bart’s roof. One year where he had been in so many countries he lost the count. To be precise: one year and a day. Sweat ran on his face. He was waiting for a call he didn’t really want to hear. He was thinking about his life in London, about his work, his flat, mainly about John. That was the worst part. He had left John back. He couldn’t contact him. He couldn’t let him know he was alive. If he had done that, John would’ve been in great, mortal danger. He felt so hollow.

The old and dusty computer beeped. He clicked on the icon of the video call.

“Hello brother of mine!”, said Mycroft.

“Hello…”, snorted Sherlock, unable to rejoice at his brother’s face.

“How is it going there?”

“I’ve destroyed three terrorist cells that were bound to Moriarty’s one. There’s another one in a village near here, I suspect. I’m going to trace and dismantle them by tomorrow if I’m lucky.”

“Perfect, then.”, Mycroft smiled.

“Doubt you can call this perfect. Ah, but it’s so easy being in your lovely London’s office.”, the detective grunted angrily.

“Whatever, Sherlock.”

And he closed the call. Sherlock hated him wholeheartedly. True fact: he had been the one who had decided to dismantle Moriarty’s web for good. But his once so sharp brain was starting to fail him lately. He could still hear John screaming his name, eyes fixed on his body falling from the roof. When he had sensed the doctor feel the pulse he had almost wanted to grab his wrist, just to let him know he was alive. He had put him in so much pain back then, that now he hoped so much for John to have found someone worthy. Nevertheless he loathed the thought of it.

The night and the day passed. As he had promised to Mycroft, he had been able to trace and destroy the other terrorist group. Now he was in the same room as the previous day, waiting for the usual beep.

_Beep_.

He clicked the icon.

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft said that in a tone that Sherlock would’ve catalogued as “affectionate”. Was his mind playing with him? Was he so alone now that had started to imagine affection coming from his brother?

“Hello, Mycroft.”, he frowned.

“How are you today?”

What? Mycroft had never asked how he was. Not even when, once, he had been half covered in blood in front of his eyes on screen.

“Fine.”, mumbled the detective.

“Ok! Good.”, the other man smiled nervously.

Now he was also nervous. His deducting skills were starting to tickle under his skin. Mycroft had a problem, or something similar.

“Well…all ok with that cell?”, continued his brother.

“The cell?”, answered Sherlock, lost for a second in the stream of his thoughts “Yes, yes. Traced and dead, as I promised.”

“Perfect. Really a good job, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Are you trying to hide something from me?”, inquired the detective.

“No. Why should I hide something?”

Ah! Mycroft had just put both his hands in his jacket pockets and now was rhythmically stroking the thumbs on them. That meant only one thing: he was lying.

“You’re lying, Mycroft.”

“What? No!”

“Oh, don’t pretend you aren’t. I’m clever, Mycroft. I can read your signs. You’re nervous. You’re never nervous. At least not as nervous as you are right now. From the way you’re talking to me, you are worried to make me upset. There are few things that would make me upset and you know them all, but you are more precautious, almost protective. Weren’t you my brother, I’d say it is a totally normal conversation. But you are my brother, and still you’re acting kindly…that would mean…”

The thought of it struck Sherlock directly in the heart.

“…that something has happened to someone I care for.”

Mycroft didn’t move on screen, but his eyes turned to the left. So Sherlock was right.

The two men stayed in silence for seconds that could’ve been ages. Sherlock’s brain elaborating all the information he had just collected.

“And it isn’t just a person I care for. No, no. If that were the case, you would have told me. It’s the person I most care for. It’s John.”, he sighed.

“Has something happened to John?”, said Sherlock quietly, but with a tone that could’ve made anyone tremble with fear.

“No, nothing.”, lied Mycroft, for he was lying.

“DON’T LIE TO ME, MYCROFT!”, Sherlock yelled “I AM NOT ONE OF YOUR BLOODY EMPLOYEES, I KNOW WHEN YOU’RE LYING.”

“You’re overreacting. Nothing has happened to John.”

“STOP THAT. TELL ME WHAT THE HELL HAS HAPPENED!”

Sherlock thought that his head was going to explode for how loud he had shouted. Mycroft seemed to gather his thoughts before answering.

“He’s in hospital.”, he finally said.

Sherlock had to process the information once again. John was in a hospital, maybe it wasn’t serious. No, it had to be serious. His brother was anxious, nervous. So no, John’s wound had to be serious.

“Ok.”, he managed to say “How serious?”

“Not really.”

“STOP. LYING. TO. ME!”

“He’s in coma.”, Mycroft eventually sighed.

That wasn’t what Sherlock had expected. That was worse. He was again walking nervously to and fro in that goddamn room. He needed to know.

“Who did that? Who hurt John?”

Mycroft looked around.

“NOW!”

“No one hurt him, Sherlock.”

Was it a lie? No, it wasn’t. No one had hurt John and yet he was in coma. What had happened then? Oh. No. Oh, no. One year. Had John tried to…? His head refused the thought, but all the clues he had gathered so far led there, it was the only possible solution. John had tried to kill himself. One year after his fall. He had been in coma for two days then.

“I need to go back to London. Now.”, it wasn’t a question exiting Sherlock’s mouth, it was an order.

“You can’t, Sherlock.”, answered Mycroft.

“I’M NOT ASKING, MYCROFT. IT’S AN ORDER!”

“But…Sherlock…that would mean…”

“I DON’T CARE. BRING ME BACK TO LONDON. NOW! OR I’LL JUST GO TO THE NEXT TERRORIST AND I’LL LET HIM KNOW ABOUT THIS OPERATION, THE WHOLE OF IT!”

Rage took possession of Sherlock’s body. Had he had Mycroft under his hands, he would’ve probably killed him right in that moment.

Mycroft tried to answer again.

“Sherlock…please…”

“Mycroft,” , he said calmly “take me back to London now, or I’ll just destroy the British government under your eyes.”

His brother knew he could do that without any problem.

“I’ll send a car to you tomorrow. You’ll be back in London in one day.”

That was all Sherlock needed to know. He closed the communication and threw himself on the bed.

His world had suddenly been turned upside down. His head was now buzzing with thoughts. John. His best friend. The man for whom he had been ready to embark this deadly adventure. Yet he had failed to see how his loss could’ve affected him. He had never thought that John could have let himself go so down in mourning his death. He had thought that John could easily readjust to his normal life. He was a fool. How could a man with a taste for danger like doctor Watson go back to a dull life after having dived in the one he had so longed for with Sherlock? It was his fault. It was certainly his fault. He turned on his belly and punched the pillow so hard it hurt. What if John died? No. No, John couldn’t die. He was about to go back for him. He would’ve saved him. He would’ve traded his life for John’s. He would’ve gone through hell, purgatory and heaven. But he would’ve definitely saved him.


	5. Homecoming

Sherlock’s travel back to London was between a nightmare and a dream. He was finally going back to normal life, at least for a while, but he was going back there because John was… He couldn’t pronounce the word. Mycroft had provided him with a car to the nearest airport and then a private flight to London. Sherlock had been rather amazed at his brother’s willingness to comply his orders. Nevertheless that proved that John was really in a serious condition.

He arrived at a small airport fallen into disuse outside the city and took the car his brother had sent right to the hospital. The more he approached to it, the more his heart ached desperately. John was a soldier, he kept on repeating to himself, he would be fine soon. He repeated it incessantly to bury deep inside the other thought, the one which would’ve made him scream in pain: the thought of John’s death. And it would’ve been his fault if that had happened. He closed his eyes, opening them now and then to observe the city’s lights out of the window.

He got off in front of a back door of the hospital, Mycroft waiting for him.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

He muttered something very similar to “piss off” and entered the building, his brother following.

“Where is he?”, he asked angrily, keeping on walking and without turning to Mycroft.

“Upstairs. Third floor, room 15B. But you can’t just…”

“I do what I like, Mycroft. So shut up.”

“Sherlock, there’s Lestrade up there and I don’t think…”

“I. do. not. care.”, hissed Sherlock.

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and stopped him.

“You can’t just walk there…like this…”

“I thought I’ve already made it clear that I do as I like. Don’t care. Try to tell me again what I must or I mustn’t do and expect your lovely Britain to be on a terrorist’s silver plate by tomorrow. I think I have already stated this too. So stop with your nonsense and free my wrist.”

Sherlock had to restrain himself from punching his brother right in the face, so he could feel the same pain he felt growing inside him. No wound he had suffered during those twelve months could’ve been compared to his heart’s in that precise moment. He climbed up the stairs in a state akin to a dream.

_Third floor, 15B. John Watson. Third floor, 15B. John Watson. Third floor, 15B. John Watson._

That was all his mind could elaborate. He tried to avoid nurses and doctors anyway. He wasn’t an expected visitor after all. The less people knew he was there, the better. When he finally reached the third floor, his heart was pounding hard in his chest. He could feel the blood’s pulse in his ears and his head going numb for that reason.

Now he was standing in front of the door. The corridor was empty, no sign of Lestrade anywhere. From the fact that there were no sounds coming from John’s room too, he deducted that there was no one inside either. He pushed the door and closed it behind him, almost fainting as he did.

John was there alone, in bed. All around him there were those machineries (Sherlock couldn’t find a more appropriate term for them in that moment, his brilliant mind gone to hell) supposed to monitor his cardiac beat and his life signs. Everything beeped softly. John’s head was bandaged and he looked pale and fragile, so fragile Sherlock thought he could break him only with his touch. He was breathing slowly, almost unnoticeably if it weren’t for the sheets going up and down on his chest. Everything was so calm, so similar to death. He traced John’s body with his eyes, he lingered on every single centimetre of his friend.

“I’m here, John.”, he said softly, trying to smile, but managing only to shed a tear “I’m back.”

Yet he didn’t dare to go near him, scared that otherwise he could hurt him.

He stayed motionless for a while, eyes fixed on his friend, head lost in thoughts he wasn’t able to follow properly, for the image in front of his eyes destroyed every attempt to reasoning.

All of a sudden he heard someone open the door. He turned to notice it was Lestrade. The DI’s jaw dropped open as he noticed Sherlock.

“Y-you.”, was all that the policeman was able to mutter.

Sherlock nodded for a millisecond before Lestrade fiercely grabbed the detective’s shirt and pulled him outside the room, throwing him against the corridor’s wall. The two men looked in each other’s eyes for an indefinite time. Sherlock could see the DI’s anger burning in his eyes. 

“You!”

Repeated the man, louder this time, but after that he didn’t seem able to emit any other sound.

“Yes, me.”, was all that Sherlock was able to answer.

Lestrade kept his hold on Sherlock’s shirt, squeezing it stronger.

“Now, if you let me go…”, said the detective.

“I’m not letting you go!”, growled the DI. “What the hell is this?”

“Short version: not dead.”, he said almost breathless for the other man was pushing him harder on the wall.

“I got that you aren’t dead, for god’s sake!”, roared Lestrade “I. GOT. IT.”

A nurse rushed in the corridor.

“Shhhhhh! Stop screaming! What is happening?!”

Lestrade showed his police ID.

“Don’t worry, police here. It’s all ok.”

“Ok”, answered the nurse, a bit puzzled “but do not scream like that! It’s a hospital!”

And went away. Lestrade didn’t move, but lowered his voice.

“What kind of a joke is this, Sherlock?”

“I had to do it.”

The DI laughed a nervous laughter.

“You HAD to do it? You HAD to do it? Did you even think about the possible consequences?”

Sherlock slightly shook his head.

“You bastard. See what you have done, now?”

“I didn’t…”, Sherlock tried to mutter, words failing to come out “…I couldn’t…I didn’t want all this to happen!”

Lestrade let his grip from his shirt, but didn’t break eye contact with Sherlock, who had never seen the DI so angry in his entire life.

“Please…Greg, please…try to…”, he tried to explain.

“No pleases and no I won’t understand whatever explanation you have. John is there, almost dead because of you and you are asking me to UNDERSTAND? No, thanks. Now leave this place.”

Sherlock froze. He had absolutely no intention to leave. He came back for John, he wasn’t going to leave him alone in that room, not after what he had gone through.

“NO.”, he simply hissed, forcing the DI to step back a little. “I’m not going away. You are not telling me to do that. I won’t do it anyway. John is there and I’m not leaving him alone.”

“You’ve already left him alone, Sherlock.”

“I’m back for him. And I won’t move from this place until John’s better!”

Silence fell between the two. The only audible sounds: their panting breaths and the clock on the wall. Both of them seemed to gather their thoughts. Lestrade spoke after a while.

“Where were you all this time?”

“Can’t tell.”

Silence again.

Minutes later was Sherlock’s turn to speak.

“What happened?”

“Deduce it.”, said Lestrade teasing and threatening at the same time.

“I’m not playing a game, DI. Just tell me.”

Lestrade sighed.

“This doesn’t mean I’m forgiving you.”

“I don’t care. John is in that room and it’s my fault. I can’t forgive myself, I don’t expect the others to do that either.”, he harshly clarified, leaving the DI agape.

He knew it was all his fault, he knew Lestrade was angry, but all he could care for at the moment was John lying in that bed. He would have time to think about his mistakes as soon as John woke up. Now he had no time for that.

“It happened three days ago on…well, you know what day was that.”

Sherlock nodded, his heart skipping two or three beats.

“We were at the church for a…function.”

Sherlock nodded a second time, understanding.

“He had already tried to…”

“What?”, Sherlock interrupted.

“One month ago.”, sighed the DI “So me and Mrs. Hudson stayed with him all the time. It all seemed to be fine, he seemed to be recovering. But I guess one could never really tell what’s in another man’s heart… I guess he couldn’t take it anymore. He asked to be left alone at your…grave. Then he disappeared in a matter of seconds. In the time I turned my back away and I turned back to him…he was gone.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade in his eyes. He could see the pain he had gone through in those moments creeping out from his irises.

“I immediately realised what he was going to do. I had to set the whole division on him. It took me half of an afternoon to find him, but I eventually succeeded.  He was lying on the floor near the Thames, completely drunk and drugged. Probably he wanted to drown himself too, but I guess his legs couldn’t hold him up anymore, so he fell and hit his head. Very hard. Concussion. That sent him to coma. We’ve been lucky, anyway. Had he had the strength to reach the Thames, he would’ve been dead by now.”

Silence fell again.

Sherlock’s heart had started to beat faster and faster as soon as Lestrade had told him the story. All this was his fault. Feelings began to overwhelm him and he had to sit down on the cold floor of the corridor. He placed his elbows on his knees and cupped his face with his hands, letting out a heavy sigh. How could he have been so blind?

“Well, at least he’s alive.”, he smiled tentatively, almost trying to persuade himself.

“Yes,”, smiled back Lestrade “at least he’s alive.”

But he became serious in no time.

“But the doctors still don’t know if he’ll wake up soon. They say it’s hard to tell, because he seems to have given up on living…”

“I’m sorry.”, Sherlock muttered unintelligibly, head resting on his knees, eyes hidden against the rough fabric of his  trousers, which were slowly becoming wet due to his silent tears.

It was his fault, the only thought left in his mind.


	6. Alone You Breathe

Sherlock spent the night in that position, completely motionless. Lestrade went and came, but neither of them spoke a word anymore. The morning came. He met Mrs. Hudson at around ten, when she arrived to check how John was going. The meeting went better than Sherlock had thought. She simply hugged him and said that she was sorry. Sherlock couldn’t almost bear her kindness. All that was his fault and yet she had kind words of reassurance for him.

“John will be fine”, she had said “now that there’s you beside him.”

He spent the whole day on the corridor’s chair. Lestrade brought him something to eat, but he didn’t touch it. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t anything worth expressing. He was empty, mainly. Empty to the point his head was free of his usual mess of thoughts. He didn’t want to eat, nor to speak, nor to think. He did want John Watson back. Yet he hadn’t dared to enter John’s room a second time after the previous night, as he was scared of doing that in front of the DI’s eyes. No doctor or nurse asked him to leave, no one of them seemed to recognise him. He was relieved of that. He couldn’t have borne the mess that his return would’ve brought, especially since John was there, helpless.

Lestrade went home. Sherlock didn’t notice until later when he didn’t see him coming back after the usual one hour. The DI was quite methodical in that: he stayed there for thirty-forty minutes, then went back to NSY for one hour, then back to the hospital for other thirty-forty minutes, then back to work again. As he realised it, he remembered that Lestrade had actually told him that he wasn’t going to return.

“I’m going home, Sherlock. I haven’t slept for the last three days to stay here. But I guess I can give myself some rest, knowing that you’ll stay. Call me if there are any changes.”

But Sherlock hadn’t quite heard it back then.

He stood up from the chair and approached John’s door. Now that Lestrade was gone, he felt more secure, but his heart said otherwise. It was beating so fast that all he could hear was that constant drumming in the dead silence of the night. He pushed the door slowly, as if he was going to wake him up. And even if he knew that people in…that situation (he couldn’t say the word, for god’s sake) don’t move, he found it hard to interiorize it. John not moving, John not talking, John’s blue eyes hidden under his eyelids, it was all too hard. He placed himself near the window, unwilling to move closer.

John’s breath was calm, relaxed. In the aseptic light of the room his skin was of a very pale light blue. His beard a little longer than the last time he had seen him. He was so…different. So much different from the John he used to know. Nevertheless he was the same person, the only and one John for whom he was ready to go through fire to save his life. He sighed. He stood still for hours in that corner of the room, once again unable to trace his thoughts, lost in the vision in front of him. 

Morning came and with it a doctor came in. He looked at Sherlock.

“Hello.”, the man said  “Didn’t expect someone to be here at this time of day.”

Sherlock glanced at the man.

“How is he doing?”, Sherlock asked politely, yet not really wanting to know the answer.

The doctor stared at him for a second and then went to John. He spoke, his eyes fixed on the monitors.

“He’s going…well, I’d say. He’s stationary and he seems to be recovering a bit…”

“But?”, Sherlock interrupted.

“But there’s something that’s holding him back, like he doesn’t want to fight. The concussion was quite bad, but still not that bad for him to be still in this state. I would’ve guessed one or two days of coma, but today it’s the fourth. He’s good, and still he doesn’t open his eyes.”

Sherlock clearly felt his heart breaking into pieces for the umpteenth time. John didn’t want to come back. Obviously he didn’t. In John’s head Sherlock was dead, and Sherlock guessed that John wanted to go where he thought that Sherlock was. Yet he was alive and he had no way to let his friend know that. He exited the room silently, feeling the whole weight of his actions on his shoulders.

The day passed slowly. At ten o’clock Mrs. Hudson arrived with Lestrade, asking how he was feeling. Sherlock simply shook his head. The two of them stayed for about an hour in John’s room and talking with some doctors, then the DI accompanied the landlady at home, before going to work.

The whole day had passed and he was still sitting in the same position he had taken that morning. For those who were coming and going in that corridor, not that many actually, Sherlock looked like a statue, for he seemed to not blink or breathe either. In the evening Mrs. Hudson came back with some food.

“Sherlock, dear…,”, she said “I’ve brought this for you. Lestrade told me you haven’t eaten or moved all day. You need to eat…and after that you need to sleep too.”

“I can survive without eating or sleeping.”, Sherlock answered, a bit harsh.

“No, you can’t.”, she answered.

“I can and I will. I have no desire for eating, sleeping or whatsoever. Just leave me be.”

Mrs. Hudson looked at him pleadingly, but Sherlock huffed.

“I’ll leave it here anyway.”, she remarked, before entering John’s room, saying goodnight to him and going back home.

When everyone left and the corridor was empty of nurses and doctors, Sherlock entered the room one more time. The comforting beeping welcomed him as did the familiar shape of John. Next to the bed there was the chair where Mrs. Hudson had sat that morning and for the first time he thought that he could stay nearer his friend. He was slightly frightened of doing that gesture for his brain was still screaming that it had all been his fault. But he wanted desperately to be near John and managed to shut those fears behind a door in his mind palace.

All he could feel now was John’s breath through the life-support system, calm and steady. Sherlock lost himself in that rhythm and the hours passed without him noticing, always staring at John, not closing his eyes for more than two seconds.

It was Lestrade that broke the spell, entering the room at dawn.

“Oh, here you are.”, he said softly. “I thought you had gone home.”

Sherlock gave him a glance that clearly meant “ _how could I leave John alone?”_ and Lestrade nodded.

“Have you slept a bit at least?”

He shook his head and the DI sighed.

“You should get some rest.”

 “Can’t.”, Sherlock muttered and shook his head once more.

His peaceful shelter with John had been broken anyway, Lestrade had just invaded it, so he stood up and went sitting in the same corridor chair, eyes fixed on the wall in front of him. The DI followed.

“I see you haven’t eaten what Mrs. Hudson had brought either.”

“Not hungry.”

“You should eat something at least.”

“Not. hungry.” Sherlock repeated.

They waited in silence for a while, then Lestrade spoke again.

“Listen, Sherlock, I’m sorry for the other evening, I didn’t mean to be that rough.”

“Not true. You meant that and I’m perfectly fine with that. I understand. No need to be sorry.”

“Oh. Oh. Ok.”, muttered the DI “I’m going to work. I’ll be back later.”

Mrs. Hudson didn’t show up that morning, doctors passed and told him the last news about his friend’s state. He listened, but without really paying attention. He walked a bit to and fro in the corridor, but he never left it. Afternoon came, Mrs. Hudson came too, she said something about the food and the sleep, Sherlock didn’t listen. Sherlock needed silence, Sherlock needed to be near John, Sherlock needed the night to come. And it finally came.

Lestrade had just gone away when he entered the room once again, alone with John as it should be. He took the chair and moved it a bit nearer. He slowly stretched out his hands and cupped John’s right in them. The temperature of his flatmate body was so cold that he almost feared that his touch could’ve burnt it. John’s fingers were callous and he indulged in them for a while stroking them slowly, wanting to reassure John with those small movements that he was there, beside him. Hours passed in that intimate room and dawn came one more time. Sherlock leaned forward to John’s hand and kissed it softly.

“I’m sorry, John.”, he whispered, before leaving the room and sitting in the corridor.

Doctors came, controlled, reassured, left. Lestrade came, asked, left. Mrs. Hudson came, chatted, left. Sherlock stayed like a guard of a sacred place, still, in his white plastic throne. No one dared to talk to him or interrupt him and, if they did, Sherlock simply wouldn’t answer. Night fell once again and Sherlock got up to John’s room.

He took the other man’s hand into his. He felt it to be a little warmer than the day before or so his heart wished. He stared for a while, then softly caressed John’s cheek. As he did it, he sensed his whole body tensing and sorrow taking possession of him. His mind went blank and tears started to run from his eyes down his cheeks, down his neck.

“I’m so sorry, John.” he started “I’m so sorry that you had to go through all this. I’m sorry for having left you alone all this time. I’m sorry for all the sorrow I’ve caused to you. I’m sorry because I was supposed to be your best friend and I let you down. I’m sorry because I should’ve been here and I was away. I’m sorry for being the person that I am. I’m sorry, John.”

He stopped, sobbing quietly and still holding John’s hand.

“I know you’ll never forgive me for what I’ve done. And I’m not asking you to. How could I ask? All this it’s entirely my fault. I didn’t…I haven’t… I don’t know. I should’ve thought, I should’ve understood, but it seems I’m not that good at planning as I thought I was. I’m not good at anything. I should’ve saved you with my decisions and, instead, I led you here. But please, please, please, please, please John. Don’t give up living. It’s all I’m asking for. I don’t care if you’ll never forgive me. I don’t care if you’ll never want to see me again. I don’t care whatever happens to me. But I care about you. And you need to fight. This world needs your cleverness, your attitude, your kindness. This world needs you, John.”

_And I need you too_ , whispered a voice in his head, which he shooed away.

“Don’t give up, please.”

All of a sudden he felt John’s hand tightening around his. He looked at the man to see if there were any changes. Nothing. He knew that it was an involuntary reflex of his coma sleep, but his heart warmed a bit. He smiled sweetly and kept on holding John’s hand during the night.

The day after he didn’t leave the room anymore. The doctors had told him that an involuntary reflex like that would mean that John was getting at least a bit better and that probably he was going to wake up soon. For this precise reason Sherlock wanted to be there, even if another part of him wanted to run away, fearing the moment. Yet he was able to control the fear once again and stay. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson rejoiced at the news and wanted Sherlock to eat now that John was going to be better. Sherlock refused.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Sherlock, at least six days have passed since you last ate . You can’t go on like this!”, said a very worried Mrs. Hudson “You need to eat, at least for John. I don’t want to see him waking up and you starving to death at the same time.”

“I’ll eat when he’s awake.”

Both the DI and the landlady shook the head, but let the conversation drop.

They didn’t stay much either and Sherlock was soon left alone with John. It was rather a sunny day outside and feeble rays of light seeped through the curtains. Sun would warm John a little, thought Sherlock, and thus asked for permission to open the window to create a split by which slightly warm air could enter. He spent the whole day beside John, not leaving him for a second, holding John’s hand. Night came and Sherlock started to feel exhausted for all the waiting. John’s skin scent was the only thing able to calm him, so he eventually rested his head on John’s bed, his black curls touching the other man’s waist. Seconds later he fell asleep and didn’t notice the other man opening his eyes.


	7. Scenes From A Memory

A hospital. A room. An old friend. A man near a microscope, working with a pipette. Curly black hair, white shirt, dark blue jacket. Tall, taller than him. Icy eyes. Saying something about a violin.

_“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”_

He doesn’t understand and frowns at the other man.

_“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.”_

That’s a shock. He can’t even think properly. His whole life naked, explored, exposed in the blink of an eye. Nevertheless he’s fascinated. Who’s that man?

_“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street.”_

True. Sherlock Holmes. They’re going to share a flat together.

The vision disappears, even if he’s trying to hold it fiercely. All he sees now is darkness. Then a voice.

Another man. Grey hair. Running on the stairs. He’s looking at him. He seems desperate.

_“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”_

What does that mean? What happened? He doesn’t understand.

_“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”_

Oh yes, true that too. The woman. The woman in pink.

The vision changes again. He’s looking through a window. He can perfectly see the back of the man with black curly hair. He’s going to take the pill. BOOM. Obviously.

_“You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”_

_“Why would I do that?”_

_“Because you’re an idiot.”_

He’s going to punch him. The man in the coat is going to punch him. No, he laughs. They go to the Chinese restaurant. Quite good food, better company.

Then the vision goes black again. He doesn’t want that. He wants the comforting smile of that man. Bring him back, please. Is all his mind says.

A door. 221B. Baker Street. Stairs. Gunshots. The bloody man is shooting the bloody wall. There’s a head in the fridge. It isn’t normal. No, it isn’t. Well, unless you live with the detective. He’s saying something about the Solar System.

_“So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn’t make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots.”_

He leaves the flat. That man is insufferable. But he doesn’t really want to leave. So why is he doing that?

Swimming pool. A darkened swimming pool. He’s wrapped with a bomb. How did he end like that?

_“Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets.”_

_“I’ll burn the heart out of you.”_

Who’s saying that? He doesn’t remember. Why doesn’t he remember that?

_“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”_

Not true. The man with the icy eyes surely has got a heart. He knows that for sure.

_“But we both know that’s not quite true.”_

Moriarty. The consulting criminal has answered for him. He’s ready. Sherlock points the gun to the bomb. He nods and waits for the explosion. He’d do everything for that man with the long coat.

An abandoned place. A black car. A girl who keeps texting on her mobile. He’s going to see the man with the umbrella. Sherlock’s archenemy. No, wrong. That’s a woman. A supposed dead woman.

_“You ... flirted with Sherlock Holmes?!”_

He can’t believe he said that out loud.

_“Are you jealous?”_

No, he isn’t. Oh, who does he want to fool? Of course he is. But he says no anyway. He feels so stupid.

A little hotel. Somewhere. He can’t really recall where. It’s a quiet place to be, rather nice too. They’re there for a case. Yes. A case involving a giant dog. Or so it seems. The man with curly hair is sitting in a chair. He’s shaking. Why is he? Is he scared?

_“I don’t have friends.”_

That’s it. The truth in front of his eyes. He’s nothing, just nothing. Others warned him. He didn’t believe them. Why didn’t he believe them? He seems to know the answer.

A graveyard. He’s walking away very fast. He doesn’t want to hear what the other man has to say. And he does at the same time.

_“I don’t have friends.”_

Ah. Sherlock’s going on with that…thing. He doesn’t want to listen.

_“I’ve just got one.”_

That was slightly unexpected, he has to admit. The man says something else. He doesn’t pay attention. Friend. He is a friend to him. Nice. Friends will perfectly work. Does he really believe that? He’s such a fool.

The vision disappears for good once again. He doesn’t want to let it go, but he falls into darkness. It doesn’t last long, though.

A restaurant. A small one. London, that’s it. He has just sent a text to a serial killer. A man brings a candle to their table. It’s quite romantic. They’re chasing a serial killer. It can’t be romantic. Yet it is.

_“John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any ...”_

_“No. No, I’m not asking. No.”_

Why has he answered that? He can’t understand. Obviously he’s interested in the other man. He has just to say it. But he doesn’t. He’d like to modify that vision. He’d like to answer that the detective is right. But the vision disappears in front of his eyes once again.

The man is standing on a roof. The hospital’s roof. The place where they met the first time. His curly black hair dancing with the wind. He’s speaking to him on the mobile. He doesn’t want to watch that. He tries to turn his head away. He can’t. He’s fixing him. He knows what it’s going to happen. It’s a dream. Just a bad dream, he reassures himself. It’s not a dream. He knows that too.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

He’s screaming. Yes, he is. And he’s running. He wants to catch him. He’s going to save him. Yes, Sherlock isn’t going to die. A biker stumbles upon him. He keeps running. Sherlock is there. On the pavement. Blood around his head. He leans to feel the pulse. No pulse. No. It can’t be. It can’t be. The vision is such a despair. But he’s not frightened. He doesn’t feel any pain. Why? He can’t understand.

Then he feels Sherlock’s hand gripping his one. He’s dead, blood around him. Yet he’s gripping his hand. He can’t understand that too. He’s speaking too. Dead bodies don’t speak. He’s a doctor. He knows that. But the dead detective does. He hears it clearly.

_“I’m so sorry, John. I’m so sorry that you had to go through all this. I’m sorry for having left you alone all this time… because I was supposed to be your best friend and I let you down. I’m sorry, John.”_

He’s missing some pieces, like his ears can’t get them all. Like the detective is speaking from another world.

Dead bodies don’t speak

_“…How could I ask?”_

Ask what? He doesn’t understand.

_“But please, please, please, please, please John. Don’t give up living.”_

Living? What? He doesn’t understand. He can’t live without Sherlock. Is he imagining a corpse telling him to not give up, when the owner of that body is dead? He can’t live without Sherlock, that’s all.

He voluntarily decides to let this vision go. But as soon as it’s disappearing, he’s not willing to leave Sherlock’s hand. He tightens his fingers around it. He’s not letting that go. He’s going to keep the last memory of Sherlock’s body before falling completely into the darkness. He squeezes it harder.

_“Don’t give up, please.”_

It’s the last thing he hears.

_“Take me where you are, Sherlock.”_

Is what he silently answer.

Darkness falls.

He’s feeling something warm on his body now. It seems there’s light around him. A black silhouette stands out in the white behind. It feels so nice on the skin. It’s the perfect place to be, the right place to be. He’s sure Sherlock is there too. He feels happy. He senses a scent. A familiar one. It’s been a long time, but he recognises it. It’s Sherlock’s and it’s near. He’s touching the detective’s hair too. It’s soft, warm. It’s home. He’s home again. He abandons himself in it.

The sensation that everything is perfectly ok.

And then John woke up. 


	8. Percées de Lumière et de Tenèbre

John couldn’t clearly recognize where he was or what had happened at first. Once he opened his eyes his sight was terribly blurry. Objects around him had no clear shape and it seemed to him that he was in some sort of aquarium. He heard some beeping around him , but he couldn’t trace their origin, for his head was heavy and he couldn’t manage to turn it around without feeling pain. He had to close his eyes once again. In that position, eyes closed, he slowly became conscious of a warm presence near his waist. He fought hard to reopen his eyes and slightly turn his head, despite it aching. Near him there was a mass of black curls, a very familiar shape sleeping by his side. Was that the end? If there was Sherlock in that place, it would only mean that he was dead.

He closed his eyes one more time and indulged in the sensation. But slowly his brain started to work again. The beeping he was hearing sounded familiar and the place smelt of disinfectant, a very precise one. He also noticed the soft tickle of the oxygen in his nostrils. Hospital, then. He was in a hospital. That also meant he was alive. So who was that person near him? Had he just imagined his dead friend?

He tried to find the strength to open his eyes once more, but this time he failed. His head was so heavy and dizzy. Morphine. There was surely some morphine running in his body and he couldn’t oppose to it. John abandoned himself in the quiet atmosphere of the room. Even if he had imagined Sherlock, it was a good vision, a soothing one. He fell asleep by gently running his fingers through his imaginary dead friend’s hair.

John woke up some time later. He didn’t know for how much he had slept, but as soon as he opened his eyes he noticed there was no Sherlock beside him. It had been just a dream, obviously. Sherlock was dead. His head was still heavy and confused, but less than before. He turned to the door. A doctor entered in that precise moment.

“Good morning, doctor Watson.”, he said smiling “I see you’re finally awake. That’s a good news for everyone.”

It took him a while to get the sentence right in his mind, for the words seemed to have no meaning at first. He felt like he was hearing some sounds and not a proper sentence. He gawked a bit at the doctor and then tried to speak. It looked like he had never spoken before, his head fighting hard to remember how to pronounce the letters of the alphabet.

“He…he…hello.”

“Nice, doctor Watson. Very nice. But you don’t have to force yourself at the moment. You’ve been in coma for about one week. You have to take the things slowly.”

One week. He swallowed the information. Everything that had happened was just a mass of confusion in his mind and he didn’t want to think about it. Yet he had a question to ask he couldn’t hold any longer.

“D…doc…doctor.”, he said with difficulty.

“Yes?”

“W…was…th…there…a…per…person…here…be…before?”

“Sure. The DI Lestrade has just gone out two minutes ago. He was very relieved of hearing that you were finally out of coma and wanted to stay with you for a while to see if you were going to open the eyes once again.”

John sighed. Lestrade, then. It had been just the DI. The doctor said some other things he couldn’t really get about his state and about the fact that he should rest some more time, then left. John felt exhausted just by having spoken that little and agreed he should have taken some more rest. Lestrade. Who else could he have been? He slightly smiled before abandoning himself to another sleeping session.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock had sensed it clearly. John’s hand was moving through his hair. He woke up at the sensation and looked at the monitors. Both the cardiac beat and the blood pressure were higher than the usual. Sherlock gathered his medical knowledge in less than eight seconds. Everything he saw was a sign that John had woken up from coma. He slowly removed John’s hand from his head and stood up. He watched him snoring for a while, trying to understand if he had just imagined everything or if his deductions had been correct. They had to be correct. He exited in the corridor and began to look for a doctor to seek confirmation to what he had just witnessed.

He found one after two minutes. It was still very early morning and even the main corridor was empty and silent.

“Doctor!”, he said a bit loud.

The other man, doctor Ryley his name, looked at him.

“I think John Watson from the 15B has woken up from coma.”

The doctor followed to the room and looked at the monitor for a while, then listened to John’s slow breathing and moved the fingers on John’s hand. John responded at the touch by trembling a little. The doctor thus turned to Sherlock.

“Yes, he’s definitely awake.”, he said “But the morphine in his body is still working, therefore he will probably continue to sleep for a while. If he wakes up again soon, we’ll see how he’s feeling and we’ll start decreasing the morphine, if his head doesn’t give him much trouble.”

Sherlock sighed in relief.

“Don’t worry.”, concluded the doctor “He’ll be fine. I’ll come back in a while to see if he’s up.”

And thus left.

Sherlock stayed in the room, looking at the monitors, but mainly at John. He was going to wake up soon. That was extremely good. He felt his heart warming and he felt somehow very happy. On the other side, although, he felt the fear that he had managed to hide creeping out. He was going to meet John after one year. He was going to reveal him that he was alive. He was going to reveal him that he had lied to him. He started to tremble at the thought of what John was about to go through once more. And it was all his fault. He went out, knowing he couldn’t face John yet.

In the corridor he took out his mobile and made a call. It was about five in the morning. He waited for the other person to answer. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. At the fourth an asleep voice answered.

“S-sherlock. Do you even have a vague idea of what time it is?”, yawned a very angry Lestrade.

“About five a.m.”, answered the detective “But I thought you wanted to know if there were any news about John.”

He perfectly heard the DI moving in bed to sit up.

“He’s awake.”, Sherlock said, answering the mute question of the DI.

He heard the policeman struggling with something, a belt or keys, and then he heard some steps.

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll be there, Sherlock.”, he answered quickly.

Fifteen minutes later a half asleep DI entered the corridor. Sherlock was sitting in the same white plastic chair.

“So?”, he asked immediately.

“He’s still sleeping at the moment. The doctor said the morphine he has got running through his blood will keep him very sleepy.”

Lestrade nodded and sat near the detective.

“Why aren’t you in? I thought you were going to sit there until he woke up.”

“I know.”, Sherlock dryly answered “But I don’t think it’s a good idea. I miscalculated.”

“You…what?”

“I mean: I can’t be the first person he sees. I’m dead in his mind. Then he wakes up and I’m there. I think it would be rather a shock for him…”

Sherlock sighed sadly.

“…and I don’t even know what I’m supposed to tell him. All this is still my fault. I can’t just…stay there and say ‘hello John, not dead’. I just can’t face him at the moment.”

The DI gave him a puzzled look, but then nodded.

“I understand. I think it will be my duty to tell him the news once he wakes up.”

The two sat in silence for some more time, before Lestrade spoke again.

“Can I go in?”

“Guess so.”

The policeman went in. He had spent thirty minutes in the room when he came out. Sherlock’s eyes fixed on him.

“Damn.”, he huffed.

“What’s that?”

“Emergency at Scotland Yard. I’ve got to go. Call me if something new happens.”

The same doctor of that morning came in the corridor, meeting Lestrade as he had just exited the room. Sherlock heard the DI thanking the other man for all what they had done to help John. Sherlock stayed motionless on the chair. The doctor greeted him and went in. Ten minutes later he came out.

“He talked a bit.”, he said.

Sherlock, who wasn’t really paying attention and was staring at the floor, looked up at the other man.

“It’s a very good sign. It means that your friend is going to recover soon.”

Sherlock smiled tentatively, his mind too focused on the dreaded meeting. He kept on staring at the floor. Lestrade returned some time later with Mrs. Hudson. Then Mrs. Hudson said that she would go home and let Sherlock take care of John. She was sure everything would be alright. Sherlock would’ve wanted to have Mrs. Hudson’s faith at the moment, for everything he could foresee was him not being able to watch John in the eyes and John not wanting to see him anymore.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the DI entering John’s room once again and coming out to him after a while.

“You should come in.” Lestrade said.

Sherlock’s head refused to give his limbs the command to stand up. He was feeling like his body had become of stone all of a sudden. But he refused to give up and managed to take the few steps which were separating him from his friend’s room. He slowly entered.

 

* * *

  

John opened his eyes for the umpteenth time since he had seen the doctor that morning. He had kept opening them now and then and then had fallen into sleep again. He couldn’t even remember how many times he had tried to stay awake and found himself asleep in a matter of seconds. His head was still hurting. He had time to remember what had happened, but his memories were quite confused. He obviously remembered without any problem that he had tried to kill himself for a second time, but the morphine in his body wasn’t giving him the possibility to brood over it for enough time to feel the pain. He was feeling light, instead. Even if his head hurt, everything else seemed non-existent around him. His body seemed to not possess any kind of weight and his thoughts were rather disconnected too. There were images of the past mixed with the present situation and with visions about his future. He was dreading the moment when his thoughts would finally become clear once again for it would mean he was going to mourn Sherlock’s death endlessly. But for now the pain was soothed and he somehow hoped that he could stay like that forever.

Lestrade appeared in that precise moment. He looked tired in John’s eyes, but he guessed that he didn’t surely look better than the policeman.

“Hello.”, he managed to say in a whisper, trying to smile.

“Morning, John. How are you feeling?”

“’Think t’red.”, he muttered. “T’s drug m’ks me sleepy.”

“They’re going to decrease the dose soon, if your head doesn’t hurt too much.”

“’t doesn’t.”

It was hard to speak. His head now assembled the words correctly, but his vocal cords and his tongue didn’t want to cooperate. Lestrade smiled and sat down on the chair. Some time passed and he recognised he didn’t feel that sleepy anymore. Maybe the doctors had already decreased the dose. He looked at the DI who was still smiling. John noted that he had pretty evident dark circles under his eyes.

“Thank you.”, he said, his voice a little stronger now.

“For what?”, the man smiled.

“For having stayed here with me. All this time.”, he managed to say in a single breath.

His head went totally dizzy for the effort. The DI seemed to blush and John was sure that he had just tried to look away.

“Actually…John…”, the policeman cleared his throat “there has been someone else always with you.”

John gave him a puzzled look.

“I think I should…well, give me a second…”

Lestrade stood up and went to the door. John was still trying to analyse what was happening, without any success. The DI returned back ten seconds later, behind him there was a figure. Someone who John seemed to recognise immediately and at the same time couldn’t really tell who he was.

“Hello, John.”, was all the other man said.

John’s world crumbled under his feet ten seconds later. In front of him was standing Sherlock Holmes. In the blink of an eye John’s entire life flashed in his brain. No, it couldn’t be real. He was surely dreaming. It was the morphine for sure. He knew that morphine might create hallucinations. Yes, he was surely hallucinating. Yet it was all so real. The voice, the black curls, the aquamarine eyes, the scent. The same scent he had felt the night before, the one he had ascribed to his mind playing games with him. The one he had associated with death. He opened his eyes wide shut.

“S-sherlock.”, he said.

“I’m sorry, John.”, the detective uttered almost unintelligibly.

In a matter of seconds every feeling he thought the morphine had soothed sprang out. He felt everything at the same time. Pain, was the first. Relief, was the second. Joy, was the third. Nevertheless, above them all stood out the feeling of betrayal. That was it. Stronger than everything else, anger gripped his heart. Sherlock had left him mourning his death for all that time, not a single word in a whole damn year. He had really thought that he was somehow important for Sherlock. He had just tried to kill himself to reach his friend. And now he was there, standing like nothing had happened, blabbering his useless sorry. Rage invaded all his body and mind. He didn’t want to see him anymore.

“GO AWAY.”, he screamed, even if his head hurt that much he felt like it was going to explode.

“…John…”, Sherlock tried to say.

No, John didn’t want to hear any reason, any explanation, any excuse. He didn’t want to hear anything coming out from the other man’s mouth. He turned his eyes to Lestrade.

“BRING HIM AWAY.”, then he added, pleadingly “…please.”

Lestrade nodded and gave Sherlock a sorrowful look, while he brought him out of the room.

John closed his eyes, the feeling of the morphine regaining his body. Good, he thought. Because within the sleep he wouldn’t have had the time to think.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock exited the room defeated. He collapsed on the chair, slightly sobbing. Lestrade was looking at him pityingly.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”, the man said.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. He had prepared himself at John’s refusal of seeing him, yet it had hurt more than he could’ve ever imagined. He felt empty. All that was his fault, his constant thought. He hated himself wholeheartedly.

“I’m sure it was quite a shock for him, Sherlock.”, the DI continued “And I’m sure he’ll regret those words when he’ll get better.”

“I’m quite sure of the contrary.”, he answered, fighting back the lump in his throat.

A dense silence fell over them, until Lestrade spoke again.

“D-do”, he cleared his voice “you want to go home now?”

“I’ll stay here. I don’t want to leave him alone anyway. I respect his desire of not wanting to see me anymore. I’ll sit here. Don’t worry about my state of mind. John’s health is more important than mine at the moment.”

Lestrade glanced at him both puzzled and concerned.

“Ok.”

He moved back to John’s room, but before entering he turned to Sherlock once again.

“I’m sorry.”, he whispered.

And disappeared behind the silver white door.

Sherlock watched a tear fall down his cheek and hit the floor. Seconds later he was quietly crying, face hidden in his hands. Everything was his fault.


	9. Beneath The Surface

Two weeks later John was allowed to leave the hospital. Despite the doctors’ opinion he had decided to not go in the clinic they had suggested to help him stabilise after the suicide attempt. All he needed now was to finally readjust back to his previous life. The main problem was that he couldn’t just go to Baker Street, he couldn’t just see Sherlock. Two weeks had passed since he last saw him in his hospital room and for two weeks he had continually refused to see him.

Lestrade had tried to make him reason, but he wouldn’t listen.

Now it was the morning of his discharge. As soon as he had left the room he had expected Sherlock to be there and so to have another really unwanted quarrel with him. Yet the detective was nowhere to be seen. The corridor was empty except for the two doctors who had helped him through the coma and Lestrade.

“Doctor Watson!”, said Ryley “I sincerely hope the best for you from now on!”

John nodded and smiled back, then he started walking with Lestrade who was supposed to drive him home.

“Are you sure about that?”, asked the DI doubtfully.

“Absolutely and definitely sure.”

“You might want to reconsider it.”

“Greg, we’ve already spoken about it… I just don’t want to see him. That’s why I’ve asked you to host me for a while, at least until I find some new place where to live.”

Lestrade sighed heavily.

“Ok, ok. But at least you should…talk to him.”

“I’ve nothing to say to Mr. Holmes at all.”

“He…”

“Please, Greg, stop talking nonsense. I don’t want to hear another word about the whole question!”, and he thus muted the other man.

Damn Lestrade! They had already had that conversation at least four times while he was forced to bed at the hospital. He couldn’t understand why Lestrade was being so stubborn when he had made clear about a dozen of times that he didn’t want to see Sherlock, didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to…do whatever everyone would’ve liked him to do with the detective. He was still feeling betrayed and hollow after the discovery, and every single fucking time he thought about how Sherlock had manipulated him and shown no respect to him at all, he felt the rage growing inside him. He couldn’t forgive that man. And everyone should have understood his decision.

Yet even Mrs. Hudson was concerned about the whole matter and had lectured him two or three times about how he was acting like a child. It was so simple to her. He should just go to Sherlock and everything would go back to normality. Obviously nothing could go back to normality.

He got into Lestrade’s car and they drove to the DI’s flat. He was somehow glad that the policeman had divorced from his wife. If that hadn’t been the case, he really wouldn’t have known where to go while he looked for a new accommodation.

“Mrs. Hudson said she’ll be collecting your things from Baker Street this afternoon. I’m going to take them as soon as I get out of Scotland Yard.”, said Lestrade, before bolting off to his office.

He had already received four calls and it was probably really urgent. John said his goodbye to the DI and sat on the sofa in the living room.

Before realising it, he was alone once again. The two weeks at the hospital had passed rather quickly. Even if he had time to think, he had usually someone by his side. Lestrade and  Mrs. Hudson stayed with him for the major part of the day and when they weren’t there at night he had felt tired enough to sleep properly. When he had been able to walk again, he had begun to roam around the hospital too and, even if he had been scared of meeting Sherlock outside, he had never seen him. But now in the morning light of the living room he was undoubtedly alone.

He could clearly hear the clock on the wall ticking as the seconds passed. He could clearly hear the sound of the traffic outside. He could clearly hear the beating of his heart. He could clearly hear the movement of his thoughts inside his head. He didn’t want to indulge in them, therefore he got up and started to look for something to read. He found a newspaper on the kitchen table and began to read it. But as far as he tried to focus on the news, his brain concentrated on something completely different: Sherlock.

Why that now? He had been able to dismiss the thought from his mind so well in the last two weeks. Why was it coming back right now? He didn’t have the right answer to his questions.

He was surely angry with the detective and didn’t want to see him anymore. Then why had he felt his heart breaking when he hadn’t seen him appear in the corridor? Why was everything so goddamn complicated? Why couldn’t him just hate the other man and move on?

The doorbell rang, interrupting the flow of his thoughts. He stood up and looked outside from the curtain. As if his prayers (or nightmares) had just been answered, Sherlock was standing in front of the door. He sneaked back hoping that the man hadn’t seen him, realising in the blink of an eye that Sherlock was a genius and he had obviously seen him. He went back to non-reading the newspaper.

Lestrade came back home at around nine p.m. . John was quite pleased with himself because he had managed to lock away his thoughts about Sherlock standing in front of that door, knowing that him was inside, and then going away, defeated. He had felt really proud of himself. He didn’t need Sherlock. Not after all he had gone through for him and having obtained just…this in return. God, he hated him so much. Fuck him and fuck everything else.

“Hello, John…”, the DI mumbled as if he wanted to say something, but restrained himself from doing it.

John waited for the other man to speak for a while, but nothing came out from the policeman mouth. After ten minutes of cruel waiting, John spoke.

“Ok…what’s that?”

The DI turned to him amazed.

“That…what?”

“You were trying to say something and stopped.”

“No, I didn’t…”

“All the time spent with Sherlock…”

Had he just pronounced his name out loud? He had never done that after the…hospital problem. The name resounding on his lips felt rather strange, unfamiliar even. Yet he felt his heart skipping a beat at the sudden idea that Sherlock was alive. Had he just realised that? Nevertheless he wasn’t going to forgive him for what he had done.

“…well, with him”, he corrected himself “had taught me something.”

“Ok, John.”

Yet Lestrade didn’t utter a single syllable.

“God!”, grunted John “What the hell has happened?”

“Sherlock came to me.”, the DI finally let it out “Wanted to know how you are feeling now. Wanted to know if everything was ok. Just that.”

“There’s nothing ok in this.”, John dryly remarked.

Lestrade sighed.

“I know you’re mad at him John.”

John impatiently tapped his fingertips on the arm of the sofa where he was sitting. He already knew where the conversation was aiming. And he had already enough in the last days of all that. Nevertheless he listened once again.

“But, seriously. I think that you two should try to speak. I admit I was mad at him too when he returned, because he had put you in that situation. Because he behaved like he didn’t give a fuck on how you were going to feel. But he came back. For you.”

“And that would mean?”, asked John nonchalantly.

“That would mean that, maybe, he’s really sorry for what he has done and cares about you.”

John couldn’t help but laughing out loud.

“Cares?”, he roared “He cares only about his damn-fucking-brilliant brain. He’s his centre of the universe. I can’t even slightly compare to HIM. I’m obscured by his brilliance. I am…nothing.”

At this point he noticed that his laughter had become a slow, soft sob.

Lestrade gave a doubtful glance at him and sighed one more time.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Would you listen to me, just this once? You’ve always shut me up every time I tried to say something about Sherlock.”

“I know already what you’re going to say. We should talk and blah blah blah…”, John huffed, annoyed.

“Not really. Just…just listen.”

What was the DI going to say that he hadn’t known yet? Well, not that he had really let them speak much after both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had pronounced Sherlock’s name. He just ended up in yelling at them to shut up every time they had come out with the idea of a meeting. Whatever they had wanted to say after that, went under silence.

“Ok. But whatever you’ll say, I’m not going to meet him.”

Lestrade sighed one more time and started to speak.

“I’ve never told you what happened during the week you were in coma, because you didn’t give me the chance to. John…Sherlock spent six days without eating, without sleeping, sat on the chair in the corridor for the majority of the day and the night. He didn’t want to leave you alone. He didn’t want to eat until you woke up. He stayed there by your side for all that time. He cared about you. He was utterly devastated for what he had put you through. God, I’ve never seen someone so willing to give up his life for someone else like he did for you.”

John’s heart, to his extreme surprise, started to pound in his chest, so fast it looked like he was running a marathon instead of quietly sitting on a sofa. Had Sherlock really done all that for him? He had thought the detective had come to the hospital for perhaps two or three hours and then gone away. He had never imagined him sitting still in the corridor for the whole day. Refusing to eat. Refusing to sleep. Just to stay near him. Yet he couldn’t forgive him. There was no way back. Sherlock had betrayed his trust, had destroyed his heart, ruined his life. Even if he had shown some affection during his staying at the hospital, that wouldn’t erase the fake death, the leaving him alone, the fact that he had come back just because he was…dying.

“That’s all.”, concluded Lestrade.

John shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. The doorbell rang.

“Oh god, who’s that now? It’s almost half past ten!”, shouted the DI, while walking to the door.

When he opened it, John clearly heard the voice of Sherlock. It was low, but he could recognise it nevertheless. He huffed. What did he want again?

“John?”, asked Greg.        

“I’ve already remarked a million of times that I don’t want to see him!”, he shouted.

“Ok…ok…”, murmured the DI.

He heard the two men talking for some seconds, but so low that he couldn’t get any of the words they were saying. The policeman came back and looked at John.

“So…what did he want, now?”, growled John.

“Just saying goodbye.”, the other man answered.

John was perplexed.

“Goodbye?”

“Yes. He’s leaving tomorrow. Now that you’re better, he said he has to go.”

“Perfect. You couldn’t have brought me a better news.”

Lestrade shook his head.

John went to sleep thirty minutes later.

 

* * *

 

 

At midnight, Lestrade was lying in bed, still awake and looking at the ceiling, when he heard some steps down the stairs and the front door opening and closing. John had gone out. And the DI had quite the idea of where he was aimed to. He couldn’t help but smiling and finally he managed to take some rest.


	10. Far From Heaven

Sherlock’s past two weeks at the hospital waiting for John to get better had been a nightmare. Mainly because John hadn’t wanted to see him and he had wanted to stay there nevertheless. So, when John had started to walk around the hospital, he had to hide himself in order to give his friend some peace of mind and to give himself the sensation of being near him. Never in his entire life he had felt so close and yet so distant to someone. And this wasn’t a random “someone”. This was John. Yet he had no right to claim that John should just accept the fact that he was alive. He understood him, his confusion, his anger. But stupidly enough he thought that John would’ve eventually forgiven him by the end of the first week. Never in his life he had been so wrong.

And it hurt. More than everything else it hurt so much his brain could barely think properly.

All he wanted was to apologise to John, all John wanted was to never see him again. Sherlock wasn’t just feeling hollow, he felt defeated, ruined, for he had been so stupid at not letting John know he was alive.

He tried to persuade himself that there was no other way. That if John knew he was alive, people might have killed him. But he knew for a fact that he was the great Sherlock Holmes, a genius. And if he had wanted to let John know he was alive, he could’ve done it easily. And he hadn’t done it. And John had almost died for him. And John didn’t want to talk to him anymore. He felt like he had written “failure” all over his body.

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson pitied his state, but were kind enough to not say anything discomforting. They kept him informed about John’s condition, brought him food, which he accepted to eat in the end, chatted with him about useless matters, which nevertheless provided some distraction from his thoughts. But he refused to leave the hospital. He managed to sleep now and then in a very quiet corridor on the fourth floor. He did it during the day, while Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson were down with John. During the night, instead, he went down to John’s room and sat on the floor near the door, mostly asking him for forgiveness inside his mind. It was like a sacred chant in his head, which he kept on repeating, never saying it out loud.

Then the day of John’s leaving arrived. Sherlock had been talking with Lestrade.

“He’s definitely not coming back to Baker Street.”, said the DI pityingly.

“That’s…ok.”, he managed to say, despite the pang in his heart.

“I know it’s not ok, Sherlock. You’re a bloody awful liar sometimes!”

“No. It’s really ok.”, he tried to say.

“Yeah. It’s as ok as my wife going out with that yoga instructor. It’s not ok, Sherlock. Spare me the fact that I’m an idiot, just this once. Because I can see how it hurts through your eyes. You may be good at lying in any other situation…but you can’t fool me on this, you know.”

And of course the DI was extremely right. There was nothing ok in all that.

“Maybe you can try to talk to him once he’s at home.”, continued Lestrade.

“He won’t listen. He won’t even open the door.”, he sighed.

“Alright. But it’s worth a try.”

Sherlock didn’t believe that at all and yet he found himself in front of Lestrade’s house. He rang. He clearly saw John through the curtains standing up and looking out to see who was there. He was sure the doctor had noticed him, but obviously he didn’t come to the door. He returned back to Baker Street and ducked into the sofa.

The flat was quiet, quieter than he remembered for there was no John in it. John had always made some noise. His fingers tapping on his laptop, his hands moving through the pages of a book, his steps to the kitchen to boil some water for the tea. He missed those moments, when everything was normal, before he had to throw himself down to save John’s life. And now he couldn’t even explain him what had happened. Nice, Sherlock. Really nice, he thought. The worst part of it was that now he had lost the occasion to let John know how much he was important to him. Essential, even. To be completely honest with himself he had lost the occasion to tell him how he…god, no. He sighed and closed his eyes pretending that he was able to sleep even with all that noise in his head.

He eventually managed to sleep a couple of hours. Then he decided to go to Lestrade, mainly because he needed some distraction, but mostly because he wanted to hear about John. He called the DI and they arranged to meet at a pub near 221B, since Sherlock couldn’t just walk into Scotland Yard, being officially dead. And he was amazed that the news of his fake death hadn’t already leaked out. He suspected that he had to thank his brother for that. 

When the time came, he went to the pub, being really careful he was not being seen by anyone. It wasn’t that hard anyway. It was a pretty cold windy day and the streets seemed deserted. Lestrade was outside the pub, waiting.

“I thought it would be better if we don’t go in. I’m quite sure the owner will recognise you.”

Sherlock nodded and they started to walk.

“How’s John?”

“You should know that.”

Sherlock’s gawked at the DI.

“How am I…”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t go there this morning.”

Since when the DI had become so observant? He was completely astonished.

“No, don’t look at me like that. I’ve not become a genius all of a sudden. I have an agent keeping an eye on my house. I don’t trust John that much at the moment to leave him alone the whole day.”

Smart Lestrade, thought Sherlock. He actually remembered a guy on the other side of the road. He hadn’t paid attention for he was obviously focused on other problems, but now he got it.

“Well,” Sherlock stressed “then you also know he didn’t open the door.”

Lestrade nodded.

“I don’t think I really know how he is, Sherlock.”

Sherlock still looked at him astonished.

“Don’t do the look again. I mean: I know for sure he’s happy to be at home. I know for sure he’s sad for what he has done. I know for sure he’s angry with you. And I know for sure that I haven’t got the slightest idea of what’s going on in his mind. Something is bugging him and I wish I knew if what I’m suspecting is the truth.”

“What do you suspect?”

“That he’s torn.”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

“About what?”

“Oh god, are you serious? About you, for the heaven’s sake. He’ll never admit it, obviously.”

“I think you’re wrong, DI.”

“Might be. Anyway I’ll keep an eye on him.”

The two men departed, each taking a different road.

Sherlock arrived home some time later. Lestrade had told him that John might have been torn, but he knew it wasn’t true. Had that been the case, John would’ve talked to him. Instead he had constantly refused even to see him for a second. He felt once again turned upside down. His whole world, his knowledge of human beings, his great intellect weren’t really helping in that precise moment. He wished John were thinking about him, only to face the truth that the doctor certainly wasn’t.

He waited for some hours, while the day slowly ended and then took the mobile he had got from his brother some days before.

_I’m ready to leave again. Tomorrow will do. – SH_

Three minutes later the mobile buzzed.

_Ok. A car will be waiting for you at six a.m. – MH_

He sighed. It was the best decision. John didn’t need him anymore and he couldn’t stand the situation. Going back to destroying Moriarty’s web was what he needed to forget everything. Would he get killed in doing that, the better.

At half past ten p.m. he was standing once more in front of Lestrade’s house. He rang the doorbell. The DI appeared seconds later.

“Evening.”, Sherlock said.

“Oh, it’s you. I’ll see if John…”

“Don’t. It doesn’t matter.”

But Lestrade had already called the other man.

“John?”

Sherlock thus heard John shouting from the other room.

“I’ve already remarked a million of times that I don’t want to see him!”

“I’m sorry”, said the DI, returning to him.

“Don’t worry. I came here just to tell you that, now that he’s better,  I’m leaving tomorrow. He’ll be happy to hear that.”

“Wait…What? Where are you going?”

“Can’t tell.”

“You can’t just leave this way…”

“It’s the best solution. For him.”

And he turned his back. He heard Lestrade closing the door and went back to the flat.

He lay on the sofa, the tips of his fingers placed on his lips, the mind full of thoughts he couldn’t control. The idea of never seeing John again. The idea of living a life alone without the other man. The idea that everything, even the happiest thing in his life, eventually came to an end. A while later he sat on the sofa and lit up a cigarette, losing himself in the rings of smoke coming out from his mouth. It was around midnight when he heard the front door opening.


	11. Worlds Collide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note before leaving you to the chapter:  
> I'd like to thank everyone who's following this story and enjoying it. Your comments and your kudos are always welcome and heart-warming, and they keep me writing too!  
> So...thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Enjoy the reading!

John entered the flat, which was completely dark except for the red burning tip of a cigarette and the street lights backlighting the figure of Sherlock Holmes. The other man was nonchalantly smoking his cigarette and didn’t even turn to John who felt as if he was in a surrealistic painting. He didn’t speak for a while expecting Sherlock to turn to him at least, but he didn’t.

“Why?”, John simply said.

Sherlock turned to him, his aquamarine eyes reflecting the light of the cigarette.

“Why what? Why am I alive or why am I leaving tomorrow?”, the detective answered dryly.

“Why what? Why what?”, growled John “Why didn’t you tell me? One fucking year! One fucking damn year! No calls, no messages…nothing! And me here, left alone! Because you’re a fucking manipulative egocentric bastard!”

“I’m truly sorry, John.”, replied the detective calmly.

“Sorry? I don’t accept your useless apologies! Seriously, Sherlock. Do you really think that saying ‘sorry’ now will bring back everything to normality? Do you really think that I’m going to forgive you because you said you’re sorry?”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”, answered Sherlock.

In John’s eyes the other man looked quiet, but he could sense that the detective was tense too. John could feel his own body aching, every single fibre of his muscles stretched like violin strings, ready to break soon.

“I know you’re angry, John.”, he continued “I’m really sorry for what had happened. I didn’t mean to cause you that much pain.”

But John didn’t want to hear that. They were lies, lies and other lies.

“You…betrayed…my…TRUST!”, he yelled so loud that it seemed the flat had shaken a bit too.

“I know, John.”

“Is this ALL you have to say? ALL your brilliant mind has to tell me?”

“No. I know I have betrayed your trust. I know I shouldn’t have done this. But it was necessary, John.”

“NECESSARY?”, John screamed, that much he was left breathless.

“They would’ve killed you if I hadn’t killed myself.”

John froze for a second, but his anger didn’t quiet down. He was still feeling it roaring inside, burning his lungs, his heart, his brain. The whole world was spinning around him and all he wanted to do was to placate that fire.

“Necessary?”, he screamed once more.

“Haven’t you heard what I’ve just said?”, Sherlock’s voice was as sharp as a knife.

“Obviously I heard, for god’s sake! I don’t even want to know why it was “necessary”! I want to know why you didn’t tell me you were alive!”

“John…”

“No John in that tone! Just tell me now! Why? Why? What have I done to deserve this from you?”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, John. It’s my fault, I know that. But I guessed that…”

“Guessed what?”, John roared.

“I guessed”, sighed Sherlock “that you would have found your way. I guessed that you were going to feel better soon. I guessed that your life would’ve been better without me. Less dangerous, at least.”

“And you didn’t guess that I was going to mourn you, instead? That fucking brilliant mind of yours didn’t guess that I was probably going to…harm myself? Didn’t you guess that?”, he was panting from the effort.

Sherlock stood up all of a sudden and put out the cigarette he was smoking. He realised he had just pulled some kind of trigger in the detective’s mind.

“No, I didn’t. And I’m sorry. But you…you didn’t either.”, Sherlock said, in a tone that sent shivers down John’s spine.

John’s mouth fell open. His inner turmoil ceased to exist for some seconds.

“I didn’t…what?”, was all he managed to utter.

Sherlock was looking at him intensely with his eyes. His cold eyes. His bloody freezing cold eyes. He was angry. He had seen Sherlock’s anger before, but never aimed at him.

“You didn’t realise what I was going to do.”, the detective hissed. “I don’t blame you for the first time. We hadn’t even met back then. But the second time, John, it was all your fault!”

John felt somehow stuck in a limbo between roaring again at his flatmate and being puzzled for what he had just said. His voice took the decision for him.

“My…my…fault?”, he muttered “About what?”

“Do you really think that you’re the only one who gets hurt? Do you really think that I never get hurt? Do you really think that you’re the only one who tried to end his life? Are you really THAT blind, John?”

It took John five minutes to begin to breathe normally once again and to understand that Sherlock was talking about his personal suicide attempts. How could it be possible? How could a great mind like Sherlock’s have thought about it, done it even? Most of all it took John five minutes to rationalise the fact that Sherlock had said it had been his fault. He couldn’t get what he was referring to and his brain had stopped to work properly.

“Wha…when?”, the only words escaping his mouth.

Sherlock was standing in front of him, eyes fixed in John’s eyes.

“First time or second time?”, he hissed, anger filling his voice.

John had to take a deep breath, a lump in his throat.

“Both.”, he eventually said.

Sherlock breathed slowly three or four times, but answered nothing. John waited.

“First time”, Sherlock eventually said “I was eighteen.”

The detective turned his head away from John.

“People didn’t like me. I had no friends. Everything in my mind was a mass of noise. Most of my so called ‘acquaintances’ used me. In any way you can imagine, John. Mentally mainly, not only though. I resisted and persisted, but in the evening the reality was that I had got nothing. I had my mind, my oh-so-brilliant mind. But what use could you find to it when no one is listening to you? It was only noise no one cared about. I wanted to stop it. I found a way. Tried, failed. Full stop.”

John stared at Sherlock agape while he turned back looking at him.

“Too cold? Too scientific?” teased the detective, icy eyes on John “I almost don’t remember it. Do not try to feel sorry for me, John.”

It seemed to the doctor that Sherlock had just explained some scientific experiment, instead of his own life.

“Second time…”, the detective continued.

“W-wait!”

“Why should I? You asked me about both.”

“Let me catch my breath at least. God. I’ve never thought that you…”

“I’ve never thought that about you too.”

“But I had lost you, I had lost everything that mattered to me. You had still your whole life to live.”

“You had it too.”

John  unconsciously nodded.

“So?”, went on Sherlock “Second time?”

“You…you said it was my fault.”

“Yes. I did.”, came the calm, quiet answer of the detective.

“H-how?”

“Sarah.”

“Sarah?”

“Yes, Sarah.”

John was puzzled. What had Sarah to do with all that? And how had he passed from being so angry that he could’ve easily punched his flatmate in the face to the desire of repairing everything with him?

“Sarah. The first person you dated after we moved in together.”, continued the detective “Brilliant, smart. I thought I was going to lose you. I tried to stop you seeing her, but it didn’t work. I tried to stop myself from caring that much, but it didn’t work. The noises in my head started to bug me again. ‘You’re going to be alone again, Sherlock’; ‘John doesn’t want you anymore’; ‘He hates you’; ‘Everyone hates you, even him’. Every day, every night. I faked a case. I went away for three days. To clear my head, I kept on repeating. The truth? I wanted the noise to cease again. I failed a second time.”

John remembered. It had been just after his third date with Sarah. Sherlock had disappeared for three days, saying he had a case in his hands. Except that he had his mobile switched off for the whole time, and that had never happened before. And when he came back he seemed tired, defeated, didn’t want to speak about the case. John had thought he hadn’t managed to solve it, but now it all made sense.

John froze still. His head stopped working all of a sudden. He felt his heart heavy, his lungs breathless, the lump in his throat growing and every inch of his body trembling. He looked at Sherlock to notice there were tears at the corner of his eyes.

“I thought I had lost everything back then. But you decided to stay beside me. And everything went back to normality and I was grateful. And then I faked my death. And then Mycroft told me you were about to die. And it was my fault, John! My fucking fault! I can’t bear to lose you. I couldn’t bear it back then, I can’t bear it now, I will never bear it, never! I was so…frightened…”

As John’s anger had ceased to exist, the detective’s one had too. John felt empty in watching Sherlock in that state.

“I’m sorry, John…I’m truly sorry… I have almost lost you…if that had happened, it would’ve meant that I would’ve never had the chance to…”

Sherlock took a deeper breath.

“…say that I love you.”

John looked at the other man, but his heart started to pound so fast in his chest that he thought it was going to explode.

“W-what?”, John muttered.

Sherlock stopped, the two looking at each other for an indefinite amount of time. The detective spoke again.

“I know you don’t love me back, don’t worry. And I know you’ll never forgive me for what I’ve done.”, he said coldly, tears fought back “That’s why I’m leaving tomorrow. To spare you the embarrassment. To let you free from my bulky presence.”

“You are an idiot.”, John said, trying to smile, but managing a grimace instead.

Sherlock looked at him completely puzzled and confused.

“Haven’t you listened to me?”, John asked “I said that I thought I had lost everything that mattered to me. Doesn’t this say something to you?”

Sherlock still stared at him without saying anything, but John could clearly feel the rhythmic beat of the detective’s heart and his irregular breath.

“When you jumped off that roof, my heart died. I thought I wouldn’t see you anymore. And a life without you is not a life worth living. All that we passed through, all that we lived together…I lost it in the blink of an eye…”, he explained “I thought I had lost my chance to say it too. I thought I had lost the chance to say I love you.”

Silence fell between the two of them. John barely noticed that Sherlock was a hairbreadth away from him. It seemed to him that Sherlock was analysing his words. He could almost see every single word moving inside the detective’s head.

Then Sherlock kissed him and all John’s world fell apart.


	12. Build Me Up, Break Me Down

It was no chaste, no sweet kiss. It was hungry and voracious. A clash of mouths, teeth and tongues as if both of them were trying to dominate the other. It was an angry, sad, painful kiss. And it had been so longed for that it hurt. It hurt inside John, because he was angry, because he was full of sorrow, because he had been betrayed. It hurt inside Sherlock, because he was angry, because he had been sad, because he was lost. It hurt, because it was love.

John tasted, explored, devoured the detective, trying to consume him, trying to make him feel the pain he had felt; but Sherlock’s instinct was stronger, dominating, taking all what John had to give him. He bit John’s lips, teased John’s tongue, scratched John’s shoulders. John felt the room rotating around him, then he heard his head slightly hit on the wall. Sherlock pushed his body against John’s. Harder and harder. John thought he was going to suffocate, but he didn’t dare to break the kiss. He felt tears in the other man’s mouth. His tears. Sherlock’s tears. Their tears. Mixing. Intertwining. The salty taste on his tongue driving him mad, his whole body shaking, wanting more. Sherlock explored John’s neck, licking and sucking it, drowning himself in every moan that escaped the doctor’s mouth.

John eventually found the strength to fight back. He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders fiercely and turned him around, so that the detective’s head hit the wall too. As he did that, he broke the kiss. They both stared at each other motionless, panting their breath in each other’s mouth. John could feel the scent of the cigarette Sherlock was smoking, the salt of the tears. Sherlock’s taste. Sherlock could feel the bittersweet of a shot glass of whiskey, the salt of the tears. John’s taste.

John licked his own lips, fixing Sherlock directly in the eyes. Then moved his mouth millimetres close to Sherlock’s.

“You taste quite good for a bastard”, he hissed in the detective’s mouth.

He thus bit it and went down slowly biting Sherlock’s neck. The detective dropped his head back on the wall, leaving his skin exposed to John’s tongue. John traced every inch of it with his tongue, then moved to the ears, languidly licking the top of them, making Sherlock moan louder.

“You…”, he panted in the detective’s ear “…gorgeous…beautiful…bastard…”

A very filthy moan escaped Sherlock’s mouth, sending shivers of pleasure down John’s spine. He looked at Sherlock in the eyes once again: they were dark, pitch black eyes filled with lust. He wanted to make the detective scream in pleasure, like he had screamed in pain. He wanted to possess that body which had caused him so much sorrow. Yet he wanted to demonstrate how he cared for him, how he desired him, how he loved him. Every kiss, every bite, every touch aimed to that.

Without losing eye contact, he started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, ripping it off as soon as every button fell open. John started to kiss the collarbone lasciviously, earning another deep, erotic moan from the detective’s mouth. He felt the other man’s arousal pressing against his own. He moved the tongue to the nipples and circled them slowly, losing himself in the sweet noises of Sherlock’s pleasure.

But then Sherlock was in charge again. He abruptly lifted the doctor’s head up, leaning forward to kiss his mouth, and then he pressed John again on the wall. He bit the tendon just over John’s collarbone making him moan deeper than he thought. He kept on sucking it, knowing it would have left a mark. He wanted John to be his. He wanted John so strongly he forgot about anything else. He ripped John’s shirt off, not even caring to unbutton it. Buttons fell on the floor tinkling softly, but all Sherlock could hear was John’s voice now.

“Sher…oh, god…”

Mixed with moans, filthy moans exciting him. He licked John’s chest, slowly, taking his time to perceive the slight changes in the doctor’s voice as he licked different spots on his light tanned skin. He slowly traced a path while kneeling down, until he reached John’s belt.

John was lost in the waves of pleasure that every kiss was bringing to him. He barely noticed that the detective was now untangling his belt and when he did, he couldn’t help but looking down. In the dim light of the room he couldn’t see much. Sherlock’s black curls were highlighted by the whiteness of the street’s lamps. His mouth was so near his prick that he could perfectly sense the warm breath on his erection. He took Sherlock’s head in his hands slowly pulling his hair, thus gaining another soft moan from the detective, who kept on doing his job nevertheless.

Seconds later John clearly heard the sound of his trousers hitting the floor. Sherlock placed a hand on his pants and slowly stroked, while he lifted himself up. John moaned in agony. He was aroused, excited, hard like he had never been before.

Sherlock faced the doctor once again, but his hand was still slowly, languidly caressing John’s erection. John felt the detective’s long, sinuous fingers around his most sensitive part and trembled slowly. Sherlock moved his body closer and skins touched. The heat of their bodies feeling so intimate, so familiar and yet so strange. John raised his left hand and gently caressed Sherlock’s cheek, but the detective turned his head all of a sudden and licked John’s finger, taking them into his mouth bit by bit. John groaned and moaned, oblivious of everything except of the hot, wet sensation of Sherlock’s mouth around his fingers.

Sherlock twisted his tongue savouring the taste of John’s callous fingers, following the rhythm with his hand on John’s prick. He thus started to remove John’s pants, leaving him completely naked. He indulged himself in the vision for a while.

John took his occasion to undress the detective. He quickly dropped on his knees and opened Sherlock’s trousers, throwing them on the floor, followed soon after by the detective’s pants. As he did it, Sherlock kneeled down and kissed him again angrily, harshly and pushed him with his back on the floor, moving over him.

Sherlock reached John’s ear and bit its top. John moaned out loud.

“Do you like it?”, grinned Sherlock.

As an answer John grabbed the detective’s arse hammering his nails into it so hard that he was sure there were red fingertips on Sherlock’s white skin now, but the detective just whined in pleasure, arching and tossing his head back. John placed a kiss on the other man’s neck, sucking slowly as they started to thrust their hips together. Both of them could clearly feel their hard cocks sliding, stroking against each other. All that they could hear were their moans of pleasure, the continuous contact of their bodies, the waves of joy down their spine, down to their hearts.

In the darkness bodies danced, touched, explored for a while. But the thrusts soon became faster, frantic, hazardous, both of them seeking the other’s satisfaction.

“Sh-sherlock…I’m gonna…”

But John didn’t finish the sentence. His head went blank, his sight went white, his whole body thrilled, ached in the sensation of the release. At the apex of his pleasure he came with a scream. His head was dizzy, but he opened his eyes. Sherlock was still thrusting his cock on him and was panting hard, almost breathless. John knew he was near too. He watched, unable to keep his eyes off him. His black curls slightly wet for the sweat encircling his alabaster skin. His eyes closed, cupid lips slightly parted. Perfectly shaped body, skin so soft under his touch.

Then Sherlock came too. The world span around him. Everything disappeared in the sensation of pleasure, except for John’s hand keeping him balanced until he collapsed on him.

They stayed on the floor like that for a while, unable to move or say anything. Sherlock’s head was resting on John’s shoulder and John slowly began to caress the detective’s hair. His breath slowly returned to normal, tickling John’s skin. But John didn’t mind. To him all the world could go to hell in that exact moment, for he, he was in heaven.

He submerged in the slow, steady rhythm of Sherlock’s breath, feeling his heart beating simultaneously with the detective’s. The sensation lulled him until he felt his head heavy, too heavy to keep his eyes open and thus he fell asleep.

Sherlock had waited for the doctor to fall asleep. When John eventually started snoring, he waited some other time, heating him with his body. But then he stood up, took John in his arms and lifted him up. He was rather heavy, but lighter than he had thought. He managed to carry him to his bedroom and carefully laid him on the bed. John moved a bit, but didn’t wake up. Sherlock went to the bathroom, took a towel and went back to the bedroom. He slowly cleaned John’s stomach from all the mess, then covered him with the sheets. He stopped, watching the person he loved the most sleeping so peacefully. He caressed his hair and kissed his forehead, while tears started to run down his cheeks.

He silently left the room, closing the door behind. He returned to the bathroom to wash himself too, always careful to make the minimum amount of noise. He finally went back to the living room, retrieved his clothes and got dressed. He thus searched for a piece of paper where to write.

When he had finished, he sat on the sofa, waiting for the dawn to come.

At six o’clock John was still sleeping and Sherlock left the flat. As he walked out of the door, a black car was already waiting for him. As the car left, Sherlock turned his head to 221B one last time, struggling hard to fight back his tears.         


	13. Ljós í Stormi

John woke up at eight a.m.. At first he couldn’t understand where he was. He realised he was in a bed, but he couldn’t manage to remember what bed. He should’ve been in Lestrade’s house, in the room the policeman had given him. But it didn’t look like it. Instead it was very similar to a room he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Oh, fuck.”

The realisation struck him all of a sudden. That was Sherlock’s bedroom. All the images of the previous night packed his mind. Him and Sherlock kissing. Him and Sherlock naked, pinned against the wall. Him and Sherlock on the floor. He realised he had probably fallen asleep at some point. Then how did he arrive to the bed? He was absolutely sure that he hadn’t woken up during the night. Did Sherlock carry him there? Probably yes, was his mental answer.

But where was Sherlock now? In the bedroom there was no sign of him nor there was any sign that the detective had slept with him. John sat on the bed scratching his forehead and trying to understand if there was any noise coming from the other part of the flat. No noises.

“Sherlock?”, he called tentatively.

He waited for an answer for some time before standing up and moving to the bathroom. Maybe he had gone out for a reason, he told himself. Nevertheless he felt the same old lump in his throat growing one more time. He looked at his face in the mirror. On his neck there was a red hickey that seemed to scream ‘propriety of Sherlock Holmes’. He took a deep breath and opened the water of the shower. He didn’t wait for it to heat up and directly put himself under the cold stream. He had had sex with Sherlock Holmes. Fuck. It had been amazing. Fuck, again. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen at the moment. Fuck, for a third time.

“Fuck!”, he yelled in frustration, hitting the glass of the shower stall with his fist.

He stayed under the cold water until he felt his whole body shivering. He was well awake now and his mind felt a bit clearer. He took a towel, dried himself a bit and went to the living room. On the floor lay the relics of the night. His shirt was lying near the wall, three of its buttons a bit further. His shoes, trousers and pants lay near it. No sign of Sherlock’s clothes either. Fuck, one more time. He tried to persuade himself there was nothing wrong with it, he tried to convince himself that Sherlock had just gone out for a while. And at the same time he was absolutely sure that the other man had left the flat, had left him one more time. Fuck.

Now he really wanted to punch him in the face, despite everything that had happened between them. He moved to the kitchen, angry enough to feel his whole body shivering, his knuckles gone completely white. On the kitchen table there was a paper note. Sherlock’s refined, graceful writing on it.

 

_To John._

 

A note. Like the one Sherlock had left him on the phone one year before. He threw it on the floor, deeply desiring to destroy it. But he picked it up seconds later.

_Dear John,_

_By the time you’ll wake up and read this note, I’ll be gone._  
 _I’m sorry for what happened tonight. I have certainly pushed you into doing that. I think you’re already regretting what has happened and I blame myself for having put you through something like this. Again. It seems that I’m really of no good use when it comes to you. I should’ve comforted you, apologised to you, listened to what you were saying. Instead I emotionally manipulated you one more time. All I am able to do is just making you suffer more and more._  
 _I wanted to spare us the awkward morning conversation in which you were going to say that you’re very sorry and that it had been an error, that you like me as a friend and that all that happened was probably just a moment of confusion caused by the confessions I made to you. See how manipulative I am? I didn’t mean to be, but it turned out I’m a bastard even when I try to not be one._  
 _I’m going back to destroying Moriarty’s web. It’ll be a long, hard work, but I hope I’ll eventually  succeed, so that the world will be definitely free from that criminal._  
 _I may come back sooner or later, and yet I may not come back.  
_ _I wish you all the best for your future life, John. Don’t worry for me. You have seen it. You just get hurt by standing by my side. You deserve happiness not a manipulative bastard like me._

_Just remember that to me it wasn’t an error and that I’ll redo it over and over again._

_Sherlock_

 

He couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t believe what he just had read at all.

Oh god, that man was impossibly thick. What part of “I thought my life without you wasn’t a life worth living” did he miss? What part of “I love you” didn’t he understand? He wanted to strangle him, punch him, then snog him senseless until he understood what those three words meant for him. Not necessary in that order.

The thought that he was going somewhere dangerous from where he might have not come back struck him seconds later. He felt hollow and useless all of a sudden again. Why had he always to leave him back? God, he so wanted to strangle him. And kiss him. At the same time.

But this time he knew Sherlock was alive and he found that he had not the slightest intention to sit on the chair waiting for Sherlock to come back or to be…killed. Hadn’t he been a soldier in Afghanistan? Hadn’t he faced death? He could help Sherlock in his work. He could be useful. He stood up, before realising that he had absolutely no idea of where Sherlock was directed to.

He walked to and fro the living room for a while, not caring of the cold air hitting his naked skin. He ruminated not once, not twice but a hundred times. He thought about everything. Who could know where Sherlock was aimed to? _You see, you just don’t observe_ , Sherlock’s voice in his head. What was he missing? Because he was certainly missing something.

Then different images started to gather in his head: an empty place on a bench, the day of Sherlock’s function. No sign of him at the hospital either. No sign of him anywhere.

“Mycroft!”, he shouted out loud at the sudden realisation.

Obviously Mycroft knew. How could he possibly have been so blind? He jumped towards his trousers, picked them up from the floor with his pants and put them on. Then ran upstairs, found a shirt and a jumper and bolted off, meeting a very astonished Mrs. Hudson at the front door.

“John! What are you doing there? Was that you making all those noises last night? Is that all ok?”

John grinned, turning to her.

“Never been better in my whole life, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sorry but I’ve got to dash. We may not see for a while!”

“Wha-why?”

“Because, Mrs. Hudson, once again…the game is on!”

He closed the door behind him and hailed a taxi.

“To the Diogenes Club.”

The taxi reached the destination in no time. He entered the club, completely careless of the silence rule. He entered Mycroft’s office slamming the door. All the members’ eyes fixed on him. He couldn’t care less.

Mycroft blinked at him over the newspaper he was reading.

“Where is he?”, asked John.

“He…who?”, replied innocently Mycroft.

“No need of your little games, Mycroft. You know who.”

“I assure you that I have no…”

“TELL ME WHERE HE IS NOW!”

“And I ask again: who?”

John couldn’t stand it anymore. He leaned forward to him, tore his newspaper off and pulled him by his tie until their faces met.

“Sherlock Holmes.”, John hissed in a whisper. “Don’t lie. Don’t pretend you don’t know where he is. Don’t even t-r-y.”

“He has left this morning to Vietnam.”, Mycroft eventually said.

“Good. Good.”, replied John still face to face with Sherlock’s brother. “Now…bring me there.”

“Wha…? I can’t.”

“Oh yes. You can. You can. And you will.”, grinned John “Or I’ll find a way to destroy you. And, believe me, never underestimate what I’m capable of doing. Especially right now.”

They stood still for seconds that looked like an eternity.

“John, I just…can’t.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I’ll say it one more time: YOU CAN AND YOU WILL!”

And then landed a punch right on Mycroft’s nose to underline the idea.

Seconds later a car was waiting outside for him. It drove him home, where he gathered some clothes, put it in a bag faster than he could’ve ever believed he was able to, and then they aimed for an abandoned airport just outside London. It was past midday when he arrived there. Mycroft was waiting for him on the landing field. John couldn’t help but being amused at the huge white plaster he had around his nose.

“The airplane is due to land here in one hour, doctor Watson.”

John nodded.

“I can’t guarantee your or Sherlock’s safety, you know.”, stated Mycroft.

“I’ve never been safe in my whole life. I guess I’ll survive this too.”

“Sherlock wouldn’t want you to risk your life…”

“I’m sure I’m quite grown up to understand the danger.”

The other man nodded and turned to his car, swirling his umbrella. The wind was blowing strong, but to John it seemed that Mycroft wished him good luck as he entered the car and left. John smiled.

One day later he was in a very humid part of the rainforest in Vietnam. It was raining so hard that he had found it difficult even to walk. A man was driving him to Sherlock’s bungalow. He didn’t speak a single word of English and John was quite grateful for that, because he didn’t want to embark in useless conversations as he was focused on Sherlock only.

The driver left him in front of a path. John followed it and finally reached the bungalow. A man was sitting on a chair, dressed in a green military suit. He was soaking wet and seemed to sleep. But John could recognise him among millions. Sherlock raised his head in that precise moment and looked at the man who was coming from the road. He hadn’t time to say anything.

“You’re an idiot!”, yelled John.

“John?”

John giggled at the astonished expression on his friend’s face.

“How? Why are you…here?”

“What part of “I love you” you didn’t understand? Because I thought I had been rather obvious.”

Sherlock stared at him puzzled.

“So…is it the ‘I’? That’s a personal pronoun. Subject personal pronoun. It means: me, John. Or is it the ‘love’? That’s a regular English verb. It means: a deep and passionate affection for someone. Or maybe it’s the ‘you’ that confused your brilliant mind. That’s a personal pronoun too. Object personal pronoun. It means: you, Sherlock. So…is it better for you if I say: John loves Sherlock? Is it clearer this way?”, John smirked.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open.

“See? You’re an idiot.”, replied John.

“I thought…I didn’t think…”

“You think too much, sometimes…”

John said, approaching to Sherlock and poking his head with the index.

“This brilliant mind of yours…is there a way to shut it up?”

Sherlock smiled and kissed John under the pouring tropical rain.

“I think this might work, John.”, he smirked. “To shut me up, I mean.”

Then he returned serious.

“You shouldn’t have come here. It’s dangerous. You could…”

“You could too. I’ve been at war if you remember. I guess I’ll survive. Plus you can’t just…”

And John slightly pulled his collar to expose the hickey.

“…mark me as yours and leave me home.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed crimson. John smiled.

“Well,” Sherlock cleared his throat, swallowing hard “…it’s nevertheless dangerous for you to be here…you shouldn’t…”

“If you put it that way…”

John noticed that Sherlock held his breath. The detective had obviously thought that he was going to leave.

“…I think that you should ask me again why I am here.”

Sherlock gawked incredulous.

“Ahem… why are you here?”

“Because you’re an idiot. And I’m an idiot too. An idiot in love with you.”

And John kissed Sherlock under the rain one more time, feeling the other man’s smile on his lips.

In that exact moment the rain stopped falling and the wind revealed the sun behind the clouds. Both of them stared up, admiring the blue spots of the sky.

Sherlock laughed.

“Oh John, I once told you thatas a conductor of light you are unbeatable, but John, look!” and he pointed at the sun “You really are the light in the storm!”

And they kept staring at the sky, holding hands, happier than ever.

Because they really were each other’s light in the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the end.  
> Some people may say it's a sappy ending, but, after all the suffering they had endured, I felt the need to make them happy.   
> I hope that you liked it, nevertheless.   
> Love each one of you who followed, enjoyed, read this <3
> 
> Thank you so much!
> 
> Leoithne
> 
> Ljós í Stormi, the title of the chapter, means "The light in the storm" in Icelandic.


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